


Things Unseen

by JanuaryGrey (Jan3693)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death Eaters, Demons, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Knights of Walpurgis, M/M, NaNoWriMo, New York City, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Paranormal, Paranormal Investigator Sirius, Reporter Remus, Supernatural Elements, Torture, non-explicit sexual assault (not between any listed pairings), physical assault, secret societies and cults
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-02 16:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13321806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jan3693/pseuds/JanuaryGrey
Summary: A few years ago, Remus Lupin was an up-and-coming investigative journalist. Then, the story that was supposed to make his career wound up sinking it completely. Now the only newspaper still willing to hire him isThe Quibbler, a trashy tabloid that specializes in conspiracy theories and the paranormal. Too skeptical and honest for his own good, Remus despises his new job. However, his latest assignment, to profile mysterious ghost hunter Sirius Black, quickly turns Remus’s world upside down and forces him to question everything he believes as he’s swept up in Sirius’s quest to destroy a demon known as Voldemort.





	1. Prologue: Three Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my 2017 NaNoWriMo project. I've begun to reread and edit it, and thought posting it as I work through that might help me. It's my very first real AU, and somehow that's even more scary than writing within the established universe. It’s stranger than any of my other works. Like the tags imply, it’s a modern AU taking place in New York City, so most of the characters are presented with American backgrounds. There’s still magic and the supernatural, but it’s very different from the canon universe. Really, a whole lot of stuff is different and weird, so I don’t know if anyone will like it, but I’m proud of at least some parts of it and wanted to share it. 
> 
> This is also a lot darker than anything else I’ve written, so definitely heed the warnings and tags. I’ll note the chapters when something majorly dark happens, but probably won’t warn about the small stuff and indirect mentions littered elsewhere. Also, this will probably update even more irregularly than my other stories because a lot of it has been written, but it all needs to be very heavily edited, and a lot of it needs to be rewritten.

**Three Years Ago**

Sirius Black raced past the quant wooden sign that read “Welcome to Godric’s Hollow” at a truly terrifying speed. There was no room in his mind for caution though, it had been pushed out by the echo of his cousin’s laughter as her words resounded through his thoughts.

_“Too late, you’re too late…”_  
  
“NO!” Sirius screamed again, the roar of the motorcycle swallowing the sound. He barely slowed as he turned onto the quiet residential streets, rubber screeching. No doubt he was waking up the poor bastards all safe and oblivious in their beds, sleeping off a night full of trick-or-treaters and bland suburban costume parties. Someone would call the police for certain. Sirius didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except getting to the safe house before it was too late. 

He took another turn so fast the inevitable finally happened. The bike overbalanced and Sirius hit the street, skidding and rolling as his motorcycle shot in the other direction. It went straight over a curb and crashed into an honest-to-god white picket fence, taking out both the fence and the rosebushes behind it. 

Sirius’s mind kept spinning even after his body rolled to a stop. His helmet and the other protective gear had no doubt saved his life, but it still hurt like hell. He couldn’t breathe. Between the helmet and the pain radiating through his chest, his lungs couldn’t pull in enough oxygen. 

Darkness surged up to try and swallow Sirius whole. It was only willpower and adrenalin that pushed it down again. His left arm wasn’t moving well, so he struggled to one-handedly pull off the helmet. It rolled down the street as he lay gasping on his back, cautiously flexing the rest of his limbs. 

Lights were coming on it the houses around him. A porch light flickered on as a door opened, illuminating the name on the street sign above him.

Church Lane. 

He was nearly there.

The pain seemed to flare and then recede as Sirius lurched to his feet. He staggered the first few steps. One ankle protested at bearing his weight, and his left arm still wasn’t working well, but after a few steps he gathered enough momentum and stability to break into a run. Someone shouted behind him, but Sirius couldn’t bother to make out the words. He was so close.

There was light ahead of him, bright and orange and wholly wrong on a quiet suburban street in the middle of the night. 

_“Too late, you’re too late…”_ Bella cackled in his head. 

Lungs burning and bones screaming, Sirius sprinted.

There were flames glowing inside the Potters’ house. Sirius could see them through the broken windows, see them licking at the beige siding Lily had hated and reaching up toward the black sky.

The gate was open, as was the front door. 

Sirius nearly fell over James’s body just inside the door. His best friend, his brother, was sprawled on his back, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide behind broken glasses. 

“No, no, no… _Prongs_ …” Sirius dropped to his knees at James’s side and reached a shaking, gloved hand out. He stopped before he actually touched James’s cheek, unable to bear that final confirmation. He might have stayed there until the house burned down around him if the baby hadn’t wailed.

_Harry._  
  
Harry was alive.

Sirius scrambled for the stairs. Smoke was billowing down from above, the air hot and choking, and Harry’s thin cries turned into coughs.

The door to his godson’s room was open, light and heat and dark smoke pouring through it. Sirius squinted and stooped, trying to get out of the worst of the smoke as the hot air scalded his throat and lungs. The changing table and a bookcase were overturned just inside the room, like they had been used in a fruitless attempt to barricade the door.

Lily lay in front of the burning crib. Unlike James, she’d died bloody and it didn’t look like she’d died fast. She was all red in the light of the encroaching flames, hair and blood and dead skin already beginning to blister.

If he’d wanted to cry at the sight of James, Sirius wanted to scream at the sight of Lily.

There was another body of the opposite side of the room. It was a man, dark haired and pale skinned, dressed in a blood-splattered suit. There was something very wrong with his face. His mouth hung open, teeth blackened and tongue gone. His eyes were the same, pits of grey-black char. He’d burned from the inside out. 

Despite the mutilation, Sirius recognized him. He would have recognized Tom if only a single finger, or a thin strip of skin was all that was left of him.

“Fucking bastard!” He snarled and stomped on the corpse’s head for good measure. It crunched brittlely beneath his heavy boot, crumbling to ash beneath the thin layer of skin. Once again, Tom Riddle had managed to completely destroy Sirius’s life.

No. 

Not quite completely.

A weak, squalling cough called Sirius back from the sucking void of despair he could feel opening within his heart. 

Harry was alive.

“Harry!” He screamed his godson’s name. 

He wasn’t in the crib, which was burning quickly now, consuming a pile of blankets and stuffed animals. Coughing as he inhaled lungfuls of scorching smoke, Sirius tore through the room, overturning a rocking chair and tossing aside more toys. 

The house was groaning around him now. Flames were spreading across the ceiling and eating the rubber ducky wallpaper as they moved along the walls. Sirius wouldn’t leave though, not without Harry.

Another crying cough, quieter this time. 

The closet! 

Sirius yanked open the door, and there, hidden behind a stack of bedclothes and diaper packs was Harry, his face scrunched up and wet with tears, little limbs flailing as he tried to get out of the nest of quilts where Lily must have hidden him. Sirius scooped him up, grabbing a bedsheet along the way. He pulled the sheet up over Harry’s head, praying it would protect the toddler even the tiniest bit as he ran for the stairs.

Exhaustion and pain, exacerbated by the smoke scalding his lungs, made Sirius’s knees wobble. He nearly fell down the stairs, only just managing to twist enough to catch himself against the wall of the stairwell. His shoulder hit a framed photo of James and Lily at their wedding, knocking it to the ground, glass shattering. Tightening his grip on Harry, who was squirming and crying weakly beneath the sheet, Sirius charged down the rest of the stairs. Through the open front door, he could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles just pulling up to the front lawn. Instinctively, Sirius ducked back before any of the firefighters could catch a glimpse of him. 

Did he dare go to them? There would be questions. So many questions, and so many of them he would never be able to answer. He looked down at Harry then. His godson had been stuck upstairs breathing smoke mere feet from a raging fire. 

It was the blood on the bedsheet that decided things for Sirius. At first he thought it must be his, but when he pulled the sheet back he saw something he’d completely missed as he’d pulled Harry out of the closet. There was a jagged cut across the boy’s forehead, half-hidden beneath his messy black hair. Harry needed medical attention. That had to come before anything else right now.

He was just about to head out the front door when a voice called his name from the back door. Sirius turned and ducked his head into the kitchen to see an enormous figure outlined in the open back door. “Black! This way!” Hagrid called. 

Sirius had only met Hagrid a few times before, but he was loyal to Dumbledore, and right now the old man was the only ally Sirius had left. He followed Hagrid out the back door and through the overgrown backyard with its plastic swing set and sandbox. No one was there to see them. The neighbors and the firefighters were all concentrated at the front of the burning house. 

There was an old Volkswagen Rabbit idling in the alley behind the Potters’ house. Hagrid directed Sirius into the back while he squeezed his bulk into the driver’s seat. Sirius unwound the bedsheet from around Harry as Hagrid slowly edged out of the alley, taking the back way around the block to avoid the chaos out front. Harry coughed a few times and his breathing sounded a little wheezy.

“Hagrid,” Sirius called hoarsely, falling into his own fit of coughing as Hagrid navigated out of the mazelike neighborhood of single-family homes and cul-de-sacs. “Hagrid…Harry needs a doctor. He was close to the fire, the smoke…”

Hagrid threw a look over his shoulder, concern scrunching his hairy face. Turning his eyes back to the road, the large man dug into his coat and emerged with a cell phone he passed back into Sirius’s trembling hand. “Not safe to stop here,” Hagrid said gruffly. “Call Dumbledore, he’ll get something arranged for the both of you by the time we get clear. Just keep an eye on the little tyke ‘til then.”

Sirius shifted Harry on his lap so he could use the phone. The toddler, woozy and exhausted though he was, resisted the movement, his short arms and tiny, grasping fingers clinging to Sirius’s road shredded jacket. “Mama,” he cried weakly, accidentally kicking Sirius’s left arm. Pain flashed like lightning from Sirius’s fingertips to his shoulder, making his head swim and his vision blur. Using his good arm, he managed to settle Harry against his side. For the first time it occurred to him that they didn’t have the baby in a car seat. Lily would kill him…

Only Lily couldn’t kill him because she was dead on the floor of her son’s burning bedroom. Images of the fire reaching her already mangled body flashed through Sirius’s mind. Harry was crying in earnest now, agitating his already sore throat with every howl and hiccup.

“Shh…it’s okay, pup,” Sirius tried to soothe him, clutching him close, the phone forgotten for the moment on the seat next to him. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Uncle Padfoot’s here. I won’t let anything hurt you…”

“Mama!” Harry said again. Sirius caught Hagrid’s eye in the rearview mirror and shook his head at the unasked question, tears prickling in his own burning eyes. Not trusting himself to form actual words, he held Harry close and did his best to make soothing noises. 

Sirius waited until Harry had cried himself to sleep before he picked the phone back up and found Dumbledore’s number programmed in the contact list. It barely finished the first ring before a familiar voice answered. 

Dumbledore had always had a gentle voice, the sort that could stop a fistfight with only a few words. Tonight he sounded haggard and shaky as he said “Hello?” 

“We fucked up,” Sirius croaked. “I fucked up…he didn’t fall for the bluff! He—”

“Don’t.” Dumbledore hissed. “Don’t talk about it over the phone, Sirius. Were there any survivors?”

“Harry…Harry’s alive,” Sirius said. He pulled the sleeping toddler closer even though the movement sent a wave of nauseating pain through his arm. “He needs a doctor, Albus…there was a fire and smoke…and he’s got a nasty cut across his head. I think I broke my arm too.”

“I’ll have a doctor waiting by the time you get here.”

“Where are we going?” Sirius asked. He felt lost, dizzy and adrift on an ocean of pain and grief. The child sleeping on his lap was the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Not over the phone,” Dumbledore repeated. “Hagrid knows. We shouldn’t stay on for long. We’ll talk when you get here. Toss the phone out the window when you hang up, and, Sirius…I’m sorry.”

He terminated the call before the old man could say another word. Sirius didn’t want to hear his sympathy. He rolled down the window, hearing the wind roar as it buffeted his face and whipped at his hair. The phone cracked into pieces the second it hit the pavement as they sped down the highway.

Hagrid stopped at a gas station twenty minutes later. He ordered Sirius to stay in the car, handing him a loaded pistol, while he ran in to the little 24-hour convenience store to pay for their gas. When he returned it was with wet wipes, a cheap first aid kit and four bottles of water. Hagrid took the gun again and got back on the road as Sirius guzzled water. He thought about waking Harry up to drink, but he was still sleeping and his breathing sounded better. Sirius couldn’t bear to wake him, not now.

Instead he pulled open the packet of wipes and carefully cleaned the cut on Harry’s forehead. It was crusted with dried blood though the actual bleeding seemed to have stopped. Using gentle, trembling hands, Sirius cleared away the blood, leaving the angry, jagged cut standing out against Harry’s warm brown skin. It looked like a bolt of lightning, he thought numbly.

“Where are we going, Hagrid?” Sirius asked. He’d assumed they were headed back toward the city, but the Rabbit had just sidled into an exit lane marked for Pennsylvania. 

“Another safe house of Dumbledore’s,” Hagrid explained. “Some place outside of Scranton. I have the address.” Sirius nodded numbly

“Good, Harry’s going to need things…diapers, clothes, food, toys. I couldn’t grab anything from the house.”

It was so much easier to think of small, practical things like that. If he didn’t, if he made any room in his mind it would fill with images of three corpses in a burning house. Unfortunately, Hagrid didn’t realize exactly what Sirius was trying to avoid.

“Black, what happened?” The big man asked. “I got a call from Dumbledore, middle of the night, telling me to haul ass up to Godric’s Hollow, said the Potters were in danger. Lucky thing I was already up in Syracuse visiting a lady friend.”

Sirius wished he would have just kept rambling, even if it was about his sex life, but Hagrid looped back around to where he’d started. “I saw the fire and pulled around back to try and get close that way. What happened in there? What happened to James and Lily?”

“They’re dead,” Sirius said, each word burning his throat worse than any fire ever could. “Riddle killed them…I, it was my fault. I thought…I thought…”

He hung his head, hearing the echo of Bella’s laughter again. 

_“You overestimate yourself, cousin…Why would the Dark Lord want you when he could have the Potters’ and their precious baby…”_

__“All my fault,” Sirius repeated. He’d thought he had such a clever plan, thought for certain Tom would relish the chance to come after him. Instead the bastard had gone to the one place he was never supposed to know about, the home where Lily, James, and Harry were hidden away.

“What happened to Riddle?” Hagrid asked tensely.

“Riddle’s dead,” Sirius said blankly.

Hagrid heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s over then…horrible price to pay, but—”

“It’s not over,” Sirius said sharply. He looked down at the toddler sleeping on his lap and ran a light finger across the scar on his forehead. “Tom Riddle’s dead. Voldemort isn’t.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now introducing this version of Remus, who is very jaded and curmudgeonly right now; Marlene, who is a badass; Dorcas, who is equally awesome; and Dumbledore, who is barmy.

**Now**

Remus Lupin had done a lot in pursuit of a story before. He’d never hesitated to dig through dumpsters, brave natural disasters, or engage with members of gun-toting right-wing militias. Today though, Remus was certain he’d found the limit of what he was willing to endure for the sake of his craft. 

His shoes were still squishing unpleasantly as he trudged through the front doors of _The Quibbler’s_ offices. Before she ever looked up from her phone, Remus could see the receptionist’s nose twitch as she picked up the stench of raw sewage.

“Oh, Mr. Lupin! What happened?” Penelope Clearwater asked when she finally stopped texting long enough to notice the smell was coming from Remus.

“Long story,” Remus muttered sourly as he squelched past her desk and out into the open office bullpen. A few people turned at the sight or the scent of him, but no one else dared to say a word. Remus wasn’t sure if that was because of the stink, the murderous scowl on his face, or the fact that he wasn’t very sociable with his coworkers on even the best days.

One of the few quasi-exceptions to that rule had her purple Doc Martins up on her desk in the cubicle next to Remus’s and stared openly as Remus passed her. He’d just deposited his messenger bag on the floor and begun to rummage through his desk drawers in search of something to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth when Marlene McKinnon’s short, spiky blonde head popped over the wall between their cubes.

“Shit, Lupin,” she said with a low whistle. “Did you go take a swim in the Passaic or something?” 

“No,” Remus snarled. 

Adding a cherry to the shit sundae that his day had been, Remus accepted that he really had finished off the last of the chocolate he’d stashed away in his desk, and slammed the drawer shut. “I’ve spent the past five hours in disused aqueducts and sewer tunnels underneath Brooklyn…searching for alligator-people. Not your classic New York City ‘alligators in the sewers’ myth. Alligator- _people_.”

Marlene gave him a sympathetic half-smile. She was one of the few people at _The Quibbler_ who, like Remus, didn’t seem to take the bullshit they printed seriously. However, unlike Remus, she felt no shame about the work she did. Marlene liked it at _The Quibbler_ ; the bullshit amused her. Manipulating blurry photos into aliens and demons or Photoshopping lizard eyes onto politicians was better than photographing weddings and pewee sports teams, Marlene claimed. 

“Well, did you find any?” She asked. 

Remus flipped her the finger as a reply and sat down heavily. “The only thing I found was a nest full of rats the size of golden retrievers and a knee-deep river of literal garbage and shit.” He stared helplessly down at his sneakers and sodden pant legs. There were green-brown stains on them he was terrified to touch even though he wanted them off as soon as possible. 

“I’ve got latex gloves and some of Dorcas’s candy over here,” Marlene offered. “Which do you want first?” Remus debated it for far longer than most people would have before sighing.

“Gloves first, and bleach if you have any. I’d probably settle for some sort of acid from the darkroom too. If you can catch cholera through your feet I’m pretty sure I’ve got it.”

Her head vanished back over the cubicle wall, but her voice carried over as she rummaged through drawers. “I don’t know about cholera, but I know a woman who claimed she got chlamydia through her elbows in a similar situation. Personally, I just think she was a weirdly kinky bitch who didn’t use protection, but who can say for sure.”

“Lovely,” Remus grumbled as Marlene rounded the cubicle divide with a pair of latex gloves, a plastic garbage bag, and a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Best I can do for you,” she said with a shrug. Remus gave her a weak smile in return and pulled on the gloves before reaching down to untie his shoelaces.

“So, what are you going to do for your story if you didn’t get the chance to interview the elusive alligator-people of Brooklyn?” Marlene asked. She shook the garbage bag open and held it out at arm’s length when Remus had removed his right shoe. It plopped into the bag and promptly oozed something too viscous to be entirely water over the bottom of the bag.

Remus’s frown deepened. He’d been avoiding that train of thought since he’d emerged from the sewers. While he hadn’t found any alligator people, he had found half a dozen things he could have easily made an article out of, from several violations of the Clean Water Act to the simple fact that it was shockingly easy to illegally access parts of the city’s old sewer system. _The Quibbler_ didn’t publish stories like that though. 

This was the hardest part about Remus’s job: the lying. He’d become a journalist because he wanted to write about reality, wanted to tell truths. He’d struggled through the few creative fiction classes he’d had to take back in school, and _The Quibbler’s_ preferred blend of hyperbolic pseudoscience and paranormal quackery left a foul taste in Remus’s mouth remarkably similar to the flavor of vomit currently lingering on his tongue. 

Despite everything, Remus still clung to the tattered shreds of his journalistic integrity, no matter what the rest of the world thought of him. 

“I’d go with the rats,” Marlene suggested as Remus peeled off a sodden sock and tossed it in the bag. “You said they were scary big, so write about scary big rats living right beneath our feet, ready to feast on and then replace our lovable canine companions. It’ll be like that old urban legend about the family that adopted a Chihuahua only to find out it was a rat, but better.”

“I envy your overactive imagination,” Remus said dryly. The second shoe came off with a sticky sucking sound that made both of them grimace. Remus tried to keep it from dripping on the floor lest Filch, the perpetually cranky janitor, come seeking revenge for the mess. 

As he tugged off his second sock, Remus was forced to admit that he wasn’t going to be able to salvage his footwear. It suddenly hit harder than before to see his sneakers swimming in sewer goo within the garbage bag. They were old and scuffed, but they’d been nice once, a relic of a time when he could afford the small luxury of things like name-brand shoes. 

Remus hadn’t become a reporter to get rich, but he’d been pulling in a good salary back when he’d worked for _The Daily Prophet_. Now, he could barely put aside enough of his paycheck for food after scraping together rent and keeping the creditors at bay. Not that that was _The Quibbler’s_ fault, he had to admit. They paid surprisingly well for a tabloid, but Remus’s fall from grace had not only robbed him of his job, it had landed him with legal and medical bills whose monthly payments he could never quite keep up with on top of the bare necessities. 

And now he would need new shoes.

It didn’t do to dwell over things he couldn’t change though. Remus was well versed with how useless that was by now. Still wearing the latex gloves, he rolled up his pant legs almost to his knees and hoped he could at least salvage them. The gloves went into the garbage bag then, which Marlene tied closed and hastily removed from the area, while Remus slathered hand sanitizer all over his feet and calves.

When Marlene returned it was with her wife in tow. Dorcas Meadowes was another coworker who, under different circumstances, Remus felt like he really could have been friends with. She designed and managed _The Quibbler’s_ website, ran the paper’s social media, and acted as IT support in between. She was devastatingly smart, and she shared Remus’s taste in both books and chocolate. Mistakenly, Remus had thought he’d found a kindred spirit in her when he’d first come to work for _The Quibbler_. 

He’d wondered what had led such a talented, sensible-seeming woman to work for a trashy tabloid like _The Quibbler_. He’d even imagined her suffering a fall from grace similar to his own. Yet, when he’d tried to commiserate with her, Dorcas, like Marlene, had let Remus know in no uncertain terms that she enjoyed working for _The Quibbler_. Since then Remus had regarded her with some amount of the same perplexed skepticism that he felt for the rest of his coworkers. Although, seeing them together now, Remus imagined some of Marlene and Dorcas’s contentment probably had something to do with the fact that they worked together.

Unlike Marlene’s casual soft butch style, Dorcas dressed like she belonged over on Wall Street in her smart skirt suits and terrifyingly high stiletto heels. She favored Remus with a consoling smile as she looked at his bare feet and stained pants. She held out a bar of expensive dark chocolate studded with candied orange peel toward him on a flat palm like Remus might snatch it straight out of her hand with his teeth.

“Marlene says you need this more than I do,” Dorcas said gently. 

“You’re an angel, Dorcas,” Remus said, accepting the chocolate bar and tearing into it with relish. 

“Fitting,” Marlene said with a grin. She gave her wife a quick peck on the cheek to punctuate the compliment. “Especially since she’s also acting as the messenger from a higher power at the moment.”

“Huh?” Remus asked around a mouthful of lovely, rich chocolate.

Dorcas rolled her eyes at Marlene. “She means that Dumbledore asked me to tell you that he’d like to see you in his office as soon as you’re available.”

Remus swallowed perhaps a bit sooner than he should have, because the chocolate dropped into his stomach like it was made of lead. “Did he say why?” After being fired from his last four jobs, Remus was now terrified of being called into any private meetings with his bosses.

Dorcas shook her head. 

“I’m sure he just wants to see how your trip underground went,” Marlene assured him. “If he asks, mention the rat thing we talked about. He’ll love it.” 

Remus finished the candy bar before he headed for Dumbledore’s office on the other side of the bullpen. Marlene and Dorcas stayed with him until he was done, chatting idly. Marlene even promised she would go find the building super, Hagrid, who usually had an extra pair of boots Remus might be able to borrow for his trip home at the end of the day. For now though, Remus walked barefooted to the office of Albus Dumbledore, _The Quibbler’s_ Editor-In-Chief.

 _The Quibbler’s_ offices were housed in an old turn of the century building whose Art Deco exterior gave way to an incongruous and rare Art Nouveau interior. It fit both the paper and the staff somehow, with its flowing lines and nature-inspired accents. Somehow, Remus found it both gaudy and soothing at the same time. Nothing exemplified that more than the door to Dumbledore’s office. It seemed so out of place for a man who ran a newspaper, even one like _The Quibbler_. Remus was used to either frosted glass and gold stenciling straight out of the seventies or modern affairs made entirely out of glass that displayed how hard at work the boss was at all times. 

Dumbledore’s office door had a window, but it was stained glass that seemed to depict a strange beast Remus thought of as a gargoyle for lack of a better term to apply to the grinning, winged creature that seemed to leer out of the glass at him. There were more creatures hidden among the leaf and vine carved doorframe, some of them real animals, some of them strange and mythical.

Remus raised a hand to knock on the door, but paused when he heard voices within. Surprisingly, he recognized the stern Bostonian accent of his managing editor, Minerva McGonagall, actually yelling at their Editor-in-Chief. In Remus’s long, painful eight months at _The Quibbler_ he’d never once heard McGonagall raise her voice to anyone, especially Dumbledore. Usually there was no need. All McGonagall needed to do to get anyone to fall in line was fix them with one of her thin-lipped, steely-eyed glares.

“I don’t like this at all, Albus!” McGonagall snapped. “It’s dishonest and manipulative and—”

“And entirely necessary, Minerva.” While McGonagall was clearly angry and letting her voice carry, Dumbledore sounded calm and spoke quietly enough that Remus had to strain to hear him through the window over the low-key bustle of the bullpen.

Remus felt a little guilty for eavesdropping. It had been both a bad habit and a guilty pleasure of his since childhood when he’d figured out if he pressed his ear to the vent in his bedroom floor he could hear his parents talk about “grown-up thing” down in the kitchen. 

“Neither you nor I can choose the hour or the position of what’s to come, only how well we prepare ourselves for it,” Dumbledore added cryptically. Remus rolled his eyes. Half the words that came out of that man’s mouth were bullshit like that, empty, opaque platitudes or obtuse wisdom that sounded like he’d stolen it from a fortune cookie. Though, Remus had reluctantly been forced to admit that the other half of what Dumbledore said was usually far more incisive and intelligent than he had originally thought the old man capable of.

“And what about Lupin?” McGonagall asked sharply. Remus’s ears pricked and his spine straightened at the mention of his name. Why would they be talking about—no, _arguing_ about—him? Was he about to be fired once again? Remus felt a sick lurch in his stomach. Despite his loathing of this place and the work he did, Remus really did need this job. No one else would hire him. Remus knew that for a fact. He had a master’s degree in journalism and had failed to get even a part-time job as a copywriter for a Staten Island ad circular before Dumbledore had offered him a job at _The Quibbler._

“I believe Mr. Lupin is far more capable and trustworthy than you, or most others give him credit for,” Dumbledore said in his unflappably amused tone. Remus winced. That was probably the nicest thing anyone had said about him in two years, and it still felt like a backhanded slap to the face since “most others” believed Remus was mentally unstable and delusional at best, or a slanderous, glory-hungry fraud at worst.

“I’m not questioning his skills,” McGonagall replied. “I’m questioning whether he’s…open-minded enough to handle this.” Well, Remus really couldn’t argue with her there. He wasn’t open-minded enough for most of what _The Quibbler_ printed. McGonagall had to rewrite and heavily edit the stories Remus turned in almost every week. At least Dumbledore would have a legitimate reason to fire him if it came to that, unlike his past few jobs, which had all trumped-up reasons to get rid of him.

Without thinking, Remus leaned forward and banged his head lightly against the doorframe in frustration. The stained glass rattled from the impact though, and the noise carried better than Remus had expected. The voices inside the office died instantly. Remus sprang back from the door just a few seconds before it opened and Albus Dumbledore poked his head out into the hallway. 

From the moment he’d met the man, Dumbledore had struck Remus as looking like a hippie version of Santa Claus. He had long white hair tied back in a low ponytail and a full beard that sometimes boasted brightly-colored beads or thin braids. He was tall and thin with a long, crooked nose and bright blue eyes. As usual, Dumbledore wore an utterly absurd tie, this one was deep purple and covered in metallic gold moons and stars. When he caught sight of Remus, Dumbledore smiled and pulled an antique pocket watch out of his faded jeans and glanced at it.

“Oh dear! I’m rather late for our appointment, aren’t I, Remus my boy?” Dumbledore said cheerfully as he opened the door wide and waved Remus inside. Remus cocked an eyebrow. Dumbledore hadn’t known when Remus would be back, so he couldn’t be late for a meeting that hadn’t had a set time, could he? It was hardly the strangest thing the man had ever said though, so Remus simply favored Dumbledore with a thin smile.

“Please forgive me,” Dumbledore continued as he ushered Remus inside. “Minerva and I were caught up in a discussion about next week’s headline.” 

“That’s all right,” Remus replied. Was it a good sign or a bad one that Dumbledore had just lied to him?

McGonagall was sitting stiffly in one of the squishy, velour armchairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Her dark eyes flicked toward Dumbledore and her lips thinned in a frown. One that deepened when she took in Remus’s bare feet and damp, discolored pants.

“No luck with the alligator-people then?” McGonagall asked. Her tone was so bone dry that Remus couldn’t tell if he’d picked up a note of sarcasm in it, or if she was entirely serious. This was a woman who, despite her no-nonsense, prim and proper air, edited stories about Big Foot and Elvis sightings on a daily basis.

“No,” Remus replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. He _really_ needed to keep this job. “No such luck.” 

“Alas,” Dumbledore said with a theatrical sigh that Remus _knew_ didn’t hold even the slightest hint of sarcasm. “I was so hoping we could make contact with them. I’m very curious to learn how closely related they are to the Reptilians we often find working in politics.”

Remus hid his grimace as best as he could behind a smile. “I did see some particularly large rats though,” he offered as a consolation. Perhaps he _could_ bootstrap a story out of the subject—not one on the level of Marlene’s wild suggestion, but maybe there was something there. Harmful chemicals in the water or food waste causing an increase in rodent size, maybe? He could probably sell Dumbledore on it if he was vague enough about it right now.

Dumbledore’s eyes lit up with obvious interest. “Really? How fascinating. That’s certainly something we’ll have to look into in the future, but for today I need to speak to you about another matter, Remus.”

“Well,” McGonagall said brusquely, clearly taking that as her cue to leave. “I don’t want to intrude. Albus, we _will_ finish this conversation later.” She stood, instinctively smoothing away any wrinkles that might have dared crease her immaculate tartan skirt. She gave Remus a small nod he couldn’t interpret as she passed him, though the tilt of her eyebrows almost made it look like pity.

Oh god, he really was going to be fired. 

Remus bit the inside of his cheek. Was he desperate enough to beg for another chance? 

“Please, take a seat, Remus,” Dumbledore said as he closed the door behind McGonagall. Remus sank down into one of the armchairs, which was soft enough it felt like it might try to swallow him whole. If it tried, Remus was tempted to let it. 

As Dumbledore maneuvered his way back to his own chair behind the large oak desk, Remus let his eyes drift around the room trying to distract himself from the panic building inside his head and chest like a balloon getting close to bursting. He’d only been in Dumbledore’s office few times and it fascinated him in an abstract, half-horrified sort of way. 

Two of the walls were lined in floor to ceiling shelves half full of books on any and every subject imaginable, which always seemed to be in a strange sort of constant rotation. There were plenty of books on conspiracies, cryptids, New Age practices, and other topics pertinent to _The Quibbler’s_ usual subject matter. However, in past visits Remus had spotted an enormous collection of Shakespeare’s plays, half a dozen paperback romance novels, _Aeronautics for Dummies_ , and an entire shelf of antique volumes so worn and fragile Remus had been afraid to even breathe in their direction. 

The shelf space that wasn’t occupied by books was filled with a wide variety of knickknacks: a silvery lava lamp that was always on, a skull from some animal Remus couldn’t identify, an oddly shaped but otherwise unimpressive lump of stone, a crystal ball, and a small dragon sculpture that Remus was fairly certain was actually a bong.

The other two walls were crowded with portraits. A few, such as the one of Xenophilius and Pandora Lovegood, _The Quibbler’s_ founders and original owners, were actual paintings, though most were merely photographs. Remus had spotted a few of his coworkers in some of them, but most of the people he couldn’t identify, though they certainly were a diverse lot. 

“Remus,” Dumbledore called his name, startling Remus back to focus on his boss, who had taken his own seat behind his large desk. The expression in Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes was inscrutable as they regarded Remus over the top of his half-moon glasses. “I know you’ve been working hard on this latest assignment—” Remus’s breath caught in his chest. 

Here it came. His last manager, the woman who ran a small periodical devoted to modern art, had started their last conversation similarly. She’d talked all about how hard Remus worked, and how satisfied she’d been with his performance, but…It had still ended with Remus walking out the door with a final check and the clichéd cardboard box full of his personal belongings.

“—but it will have to wait. There’s something else I need you to cover for me.” Dumbledore finished.

For a moment Remus was so stunned he continued to forget to breathe until his lungs painfully reminded him of their function and he noisily sucked in air.

“Um…yes, of course,” Remus stammered. He felt lightheaded. He wasn’t being fired.

Not today, at least.

Dumbledore broke into a wide, warmhearted smile. “Excellent! There’s a man who just recently returned to New York after several years away, I want you to profile him for _The Quibbler_.”

“All right,” Remus said with a nod. He didn’t mind writing profiles so much, even for the charlatans and nut jobs _The Quibbler_ usually featured. He felt less dishonest when he was conveying the experiences and beliefs of a person directly rather than reporting on things that clearly weren’t factual. “Who am I going to be interviewing?”

Dumbledore picked up a slip of paper with nothing but a phone number and what Remus could only assume was a name. Although, given how unusual his own name was, Remus didn’t have room to critique anyone else’s.

“So,” Remus said as he took the slip of paper. “Who is Sirius Black?”


	3. Chapter 2

Remus left Dumbledore’s office with a few vague, almost evasive answers from the old editor-in-chief and a handful of thin paperback books put out by a niche publisher of books on the occult and the paranormal. The name “Sirius Black” was emblazoned across every cover, but Remus’s quick glance through the book on the top of the stack hadn’t revealed any additional information about the author, not a single picture or even a short biographic blurb.

He continued to flip through the first book as he walked back toward his desk. It was titled _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ and seemed to recount Black’s experience exorcising several dangerous spirits from a Soviet-era prison in the Ukraine in exchange for avoiding a sentence to the same prison on trumped up criminal charges. It would have sounded fantastical as fiction; presented as non-fiction the story was preposterous. 

Remus had dealt with preposterous before though. Dumbledore had assigned him to write profiles on a handful of eccentrics in his brief time at _The Quibbler_ , each more ridiculous than the last.

The first had been a strange, stuttering exorcist named Quirrell who wore a lumpy purple turban and long strings of medicine beads despite being one of the whitest white men Remus had ever met. Quirrell had been anxious through their entire interview, sweating and twitching and talking to or staring at things that weren’t there. Remus thought he was putting on some sort of act until the interview was over and Quirrell had offered to sell him peyote. 

Of course, Quirrell had been harmless compared to Alastor Moody, a deeply paranoid former police officer turned ghost hunter. Moody had been extremely suspicious of every question Remus asked him, but had been more than happy to show Remus the arsenal of guns, ammunition, and other weapons he kept stockpiled in his booby-trapped Long Island bungalow. 

Worst of all though had been Gilderoy Lockheart, a narcissistic fraud of a medium whose books somehow managed to make bestseller lists despite being hackneyed con-jobs. His success was, in Remus’s admittedly bitter opinion, a testament to the gullibility of the American public when faced with a blandly handsome white man whose only real talent was convincing people he knew what he was talking about. To make the experience even worse, Lockheart had propositioned Remus right after their interview in such a slimy, condescending manner that Remus had lost his temper and tore the man to shreds in the article he’d written. To his great surprise, McGonagall had let the story go to print exactly as he’d written it, borderline libel and all. 

Sirius Black couldn’t be worse than that.

“I got you shoes!” Marlene said brightly, almost tripping Remus with the enormous pair of black Dickies work boots she held out of her cubicle. He managed to catch himself against the dividing wall, but the books tumbled out of his hands. 

“Oh shit! Sorry, Remus,” Marlene said. She dropped the boots and bent down to help him pick the books up, but frowned when she saw the cover of _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ and its looming prison on a bleak, rocky coast. 

“Interesting reading,” she said as she handed the book back to Remus. It almost sounded like a note of tension had crept into her cheerful voice.

“Dumbledore let me borrow them,” he said defensively. “Research for the interview I’m supposed to go and get.”

Marlene’s blonde eyebrows shot up. “With Black? Dumbledore wants you to interview Sirius Black?” She asked, disbelief and disapproval now clear in her voice.

“You’ve heard of him then?”

She wrinkled her nose with distaste. “We’ve met. It was at some cryptozoology convention in Providence, maybe four years ago. Kettleburn was speaking so Dumbledore had me there taking pictures. Sirius Black was there too.”

“And…” Remus pressed. There had to be more to it than that to warrant Marlene’s reaction to hearing Black’s name. 

“And she got kicked out of the conference for punching him in the face,” a voice chimed in from the other side of Marlene’s cubicle. Marlene’s cheeks actually flushed pink.

“Shut it, Dearborn,” Marlene snarled. It was too late though, because Caradoc Dearborn wheeled his desk chair back until he could lean out of his cubicle without getting up. Dearborn worked at _The Quibbler_ for precisely the same reason he didn’t get up out of his chair to talk to them. He was lazy. Like Remus, he’d started out as a legitimate journalist, but somewhere along the line he discovered it was easier to sit at his desk and make shit up than it was to get off his ass and do any real work.

Right now though, Dearborn had Remus’s undivided attention. He looked between the overweight older man and the glowering Marlene. “Oh really?”

Marlene huffed. “He punched me too, and we _both_ got kicked out.”

Her petulant frown deepened when Remus actually cracked a small smile, a rare occurrence within _The Quibbler_ offices. 

“He started it,” Marlene said defensively. “I didn’t even know who he was at the time. He was talking to Dumbledore and Kettleburn and I took a picture of the three of them. Black freaked out, stomped over, grabbed my camera and smashed the crap out of it. Didn’t just grab the memory card out of it, he smashed the whole fucking thing!” 

She backed into her cubicle and ran a protective hand over the shelf with her collection of cameras. “So, I punched him right in his smarmy face. He hit me back…and then security threw us both out.”

“So,” Remus said with a sigh. “What you’re saying is that he’s an asshole.” 

Lovely. 

Marlene bit her lip and shrugged. “Yes…but also no. Does that make sense?”

When Remus and Dearborn—who had now fully insinuated himself into the conversation—both shrugged in return, Marlene growled. She shoved _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ back into Remus’s hands and pulled open one of her desk drawers. It was a chaotic jumble of film and office supplies inside, and she swore as she had to move on toward another drawer full of the same sort of junk. She found what looked like a note card and handed it to Remus.

“This, I think, is Sirius Black in a nutshell,” she said.

The paper was heavy cardstock that felt smooth and elegant against Remus’s fingertips. It was a card, he realized, a small one, the sort that might accompany a bouquet of flowers or another gift delivered to a lover. For a moment Remus almost felt embarrassed holding it, but he reminded himself that the not had been delivered to Marlene from a man, and with Dorcas at home she wasn’t likely to fall for anything or anyone else.

The note was short and simple, handwritten in elegant, almost calligraphic cursive. It read:

_Ms. McKinnon,_

_I most sincerely apologize for destroying your camera. I hope this replacement suffices. Never try to take a fucking picture of me again._

_Cordially,_

_Sirius Black_

Remus frowned at the card.

“He bought me a new camera,” Marlene explained. “Nicer than the one he destroyed, actually. Even included a bunch of new lenses and filters…So, he’s an asshole, but also nice.”

“Well,” Remus said cynically. “He can’t be worse than Lockheart.”

Marlene and Dearborn exchanged a glance then shrugged.

*

Remus took two buses and walked seven blocks home in a pair of Hagrid’s work boots that were at least four sizes too big and carried their own peculiar odor with them. It was a horrible sort of consolation prize, but between the boots and the lingering stink of his jeans Remus managed to avoid sharing a bench seat with anyone for the entire ride home. Though the blisters he acquired did nothing to improve his overall mood.

The apartment Remus now rented was nowhere near as nice as the one he’d had a few years ago. It had been his ex’s name on the lease to that apartment though, and Bertram had made no bones about and tossing Remus out as soon as Remus’s tarnished reputation began to harm his own status. Though if Remus was honest with himself he’d known things with Bertram had been crumbling long before everything else in his life had begun to fall apart.

In all honesty, Remus was lucky to still be able to afford an apartment at all, let alone one where he had his own bedroom. He had to share the place with a roommate, but Remus wasn’t in a financial position to complain, even if said roommate was a slob. Not even if the apartment in question was up five stories with an elevator that never seemed to be in service. 

Remus clomped up every flight of stairs in Hagrid’s spare boots, too afraid of the unidentifiable stains and smears on the stairs to tread barefoot. He hoped with every step, half praying to the saints his mother had believed in, that his roommate wouldn’t be in. Remus wanted peace and quiet and Peter was neither of those things. No gods or luck were with him today though, because the second Remus unlocked the door, Peter called out to him cheerfully.

“Hey! Is that you, Remus?” Asked Peter Pettigrew’s nasal voice from the tiny galley kitchen. “You’re home early!”

It smelled good in their apartment, like Italian spices and sausage. One of Peter’s redeeming qualities was that he was a good cook. Even better, he was often willing to share his meals if Remus offered to do some extra cleaning around the apartment. Well, if he couldn’t have his peace and quiet, maybe he could at least get some food out of it if tonight was one of those nights. Remus could do with a good meal, and his designated cupboards were bare except for a few old cans of tomato soup and packaged ramen.

Remus popped his head into the kitchen and favored Peter with a forced smile. “Yeah, hope I’m not intruding. I left early to do some research from home.”

Peter stood at the stove, a large pan of red sauce bubbling gently in front of him. He returned Remus’s smile with a genuine one of his own. Peter was a short, chronically twitchy man twitchy with small, pale eyes that always seemed to be watery and squinting. His pale hair was starting to go thin on top, not that Remus had any room to judge on that front since he’d been noticing more and more strands of gray at his own temples. The stress of the past two years had taken their toll on every aspect of his life.

“Of course not! It’s your apartment too. I’m making pasta if you want some. The sauce’ll be ready in about an hour.”

“Thanks, Pete, that’d be great. I’ll do the dishes in return. I just need a shower first.” It was only fair, after all, even if Peter didn’t have a full-time job. 

Remus wasn’t sure how Peter managed to afford their two-bedroom apartment. It seemed rude to ask, especially since Peter had blatantly ignored the plethora of bad press he could find if he Googled Remus’s name. No one else had been willing to take a chance renting to a disgraced, deeply indebted journalist except Peter, who had simply smiled guilelessly the first time they’d met and shrugged, saying Remus seemed like a nice enough person, and so long as he did his fair share of cleaning the bathroom, Peter was sure everything would work out fine.

“Sounds great!” Peter agreed. He rarely did the dishes even when he dirtied them, so Remus might as well get some dinner out of the chore he did most of the time anyway. 

Remus ducked back out of the kitchen and headed down the narrow hallway toward his bedroom. It was small shoebox of a room with a narrow, drafty window that looked out onto the bricks of the building next door barely three feet away. However, it was private, and that was about as much as Remus could hope for right now.

Remus dropped his messenger bag on the bed that took up most of the room and kicked off his borrowed boots before heading straight for the bathroom. The groaning pipes refused to give Remus the truly hot water he craved, but he was willing to settle for a lukewarm shower and lots of soap. The water was growing genuinely cold by the time Remus felt clean enough to climb out. 

He’d taken his jeans into the shower with him and there seemed to be some hope of saving them. They were sopping wet now, and Remus left them hanging over the shower rod to dry a bit before heading back to his bedroom. Pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt, Remus collapsed onto his bed, groaning with the relief of being clean and being home. He’d left _The Quibbler’s_ offices early with Dumbledore’s blessing, but there was still a lot of work to do if he wanted to be prepared to meet the infamous Sirius Black. Reaching into his bag Remus pulled out _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ and opened to the page he’d marked with the slip of paper containing Black’s phone number.

The book wasn’t long, only a few hundred pages, and Remus had managed to get halfway through it on the bus ride home. He’d made it through another two chapters by the time Peter called from the kitchen to let him know dinner was ready. Remus was surprised by how reluctant he was to put the book down. He didn’t believe Black’s claims for a second, but he had to admit the man knew how to write. 

Black was good at drawing a reader in to the narrative, at painting a picture of a dark, frigid prison full of terrifying prisoners and even more terrifying wraiths that lurked in every shadow. Remus genuinely shivered in fright during several scenes. Even more impressive, Black managed to weave exposition into the flow of the story, detailing the tools and exact methods he’d used to identify and drive away the supposed evil spirits that had been feeding on the meager happiness of the prisoners. The book seemed to function as half memoir and half how-to guide for exorcisms.

His nose still in the book, Remus made his way into the kitchen. Peter was already at their tiny table with a plate heaped high with linguini smothered in a meaty red sauce. “Looks great, Pete,” Remus said honestly. He set the book down on the table, still open to save his page before following his nose and his rumbling stomach to the pot on the stove.

“Good book?” Peter asked around a mouthful of pasta. From the corner of his eye, Remus saw Peter reach out to take a closer look at the cover. Remus wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Peter read an actual book in all the time they’d lived together. He was more of a video game and _Hustler_ sort of guy from what Remus had gathered.

“It’s for work, research,” Remus said as he helped himself to a full plate as well. He didn’t like to talk about work while away from _The Quibbler_. It felt embarrassing. Thankfully, Peter wasn’t usually the curious sort. Remus turned back only to find Peter staring at _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ , his fork limp in his hand and his mouth hanging open. 

“Pete?” Remus said uncertainly as he sat back down. Peter jumped like he’d forgotten Remus was there at all. His fork clattered to the ground, splattering sauce and ground beef across the tabletop and the linoleum floor. “Are you all right?” Remus asked when his roommate didn’t even move to pick the fork up off the ground.

“What?” Peter replied, finally blinking. “Oh…yeah, sorry, Remus…” His eyes flicked back down to the book now flecked with red. “Sorry, just…spooky stuff there. I never liked ghosts and all that.”

Peter gave a nervous chuckle and bent down to retrieve his fork, halfheartedly mopping at the sauce splatters with his napkin. Remus winced as he cleaned spots of red off _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ , luckily the cover didn’t seem to have taken any damage. Remus was meticulously careful with his own books, and doubly so with those he borrowed from other people. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as he reread the back cover. If the vague, mildly dramatic text there and the moody picture on the cover were enough to frighten Peter it was a miracle he didn’t have a panic attack every time a horror movie trailer popped up on TV.

Out of respect for Peter’s obvious discomfort, Remus tucked the book away so he wouldn’t have to see it. Still, Peter remained nervous and jumpy, and he quickly gave up on dinner, barely making it through half of his meal—a true rarity for his usually prodigious appetite. He excused himself and scampered off to his bedroom, unusual as well, since he usually plopped himself down on the couch to play video games or watch TV after dinner. Remus finished his own food then did as he’d promised and cleaned up the kitchen before retreating to his own room. 

He finished _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ and then decided it was time to reach out and actually set up his interview with Sirius Black. Dumbledore had done some of the initial work for him, reaching out to Black and getting him to agree to the interview. Remus just had to call and set up the time and place. He picked up the note with Black’s number and dialed it.

The call went straight to voicemail, and a throaty voice with a cultured English accent said, “If you don’t know who you’re trying to reach you obviously don’t need to speak to me.” Remus was so surprised by the bizarre greeting and the dismissive sneer in the voice that he almost missed the beep that started recording of his message. His tongue suddenly felt like it was tied in a knot and Remus stammered for a second.

“Er—hello, this is Remus Lupin from _The Quibbler_. I’m calling for Sirius Black—” He winced when he realized he was doing exactly what Black had scoffed at in his voicemail greeting. “I believe you’ve already spoken to my editor, Albus Dumbledore, about doing an interview for a profile in our paper. I’m calling to set up a time and place…” Remus grimaced at his own awkwardness as he hung up after giving his own contact information. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t been this inept since college.

Shaking his head, Remus tossed his phone down on the bed and picked up another of Black’s books, this one titled _The Department of Mysteries,_ only to set it down again. Instead, he reached for his laptop and opened a new browser tab, Googling the name “Sirius Black.”

It surprised Remus how few results he got once he’d filtered out the astronomy related search results. There was a page for Black’s books on his publisher’s website and some online stores, but it didn’t seem like Black had his own website. That was unusual these days, especially for someone who made his living selling books based on his supposedly adventurous life. Even paranoid old Alastor Moody had had a website. It was a clunky relic, but he still had one. 

The only places Sirius Black seemed to pop up beyond shopping sites selling his books were message boards and social news sites. His name could be found in comment sections and message threads on sites like YouTube, Tumblr, and Reddit, as well as specialized forums dedicated to paranormal research and ghost hunting.

A few people on the message boards claimed to have met the man in person, but most of what Remus found seemed to be third-hand rumors and discussions about Black’s books. Black himself seemed to have no presence on any of those sites, or any public social media. 

There were a handful of personal accounts of encounters with Black. One man claimed Black had saved his little sister from demonic possession. Another accused him of being involved in a series of suspicious disappearances in southern Texas. However, even those who sang Sirius Black’s praises seemed reluctant to say too much. Conversations often withered and died quickly after Black was brought up. Some posters even warned others who tried to discuss Black at length.

_“Don’t talk about Sirius Black.”_ One message on Reddit cautioned. _“There’s something that hunts him. You don’t want it hunting you too.”  
_  
Remus felt a shiver run up his spine despite himself. Just because he didn’t believe in ghosts and demons and all of that didn’t mean some of this stuff couldn’t occasionally creep him out. There were more posts like that, ones that seemed to dance around some evil spirit or demon that seemed to follow or haunt Sirius Black, though no one seemed to know much about it, or if they did they weren’t willing to talk about it except in the vaguest terms. “You Know Who” or “He Who Must Not Be Named” a few people called it. Remus had encountered similar fears before, belief that speaking or even writing a demon’s name could draw its attention or even summon it. 

He flipped open his notebook and made a reminder to ask Black about it.

Remus was almost ready to give up and return to _The Department of Mysteries_ when his phone buzzed on the bed. It wasn’t the call he was expecting. Instead it was a text.

Diagon Hotel Bar  
8 PM  
Tonight  
SB

It was already ten past seven.

“Shit!” Remus yelped. He grabbed the phone and quickly Googled the Diagon Hotel as he dug through his dresser for clean pants. The hotel where Black wanted to meet was a fancy place right off of Central Park. Remus could _probably_ make it there by eight so long as the buses and subway weren’t too far behind schedule. 

He hadn’t expected Black to want to meet _tonight_. Remus hadn’t even had time to read more than one of his books, and he felt horribly unprepared. Checking his messenger bag, Remus threw in his notebook, several spare pens, and his voice recorder. 

One shoe was still untied as he rushed out of the apartment, calling a hurried goodbye at Peter’s closed bedroom door.


	4. Interlude: Two Years Ago

**Two Years Ago**

This wasn’t the first time Remus had been followed home at night. He was good at sensing it by now, good at listening to his instincts when the hair rose on the back of his neck and the ancient, lizard part of his brain started to ring warning bells. The last time it had happened the man tailing him had been a thug working for the Snatchers, a criminal gang involved in human trafficking. Remus had been looking into their operations, and they weren’t happy about it.   
_  
That_ had been terrifying. This felt different though, less malevolent, almost familiar.

Still, Remus slipped his hand into his messenger bag, wrapping it around the stun gun he wasn’t, legally speaking, supposed to have. Better safe than sorry though, especially since he made his living pissing off powerful and dangerous people these days. Continuing to walk, Remus took a right turn rather than keep on straight toward his apartment building. He didn’t want to lead whoever was tailing him directly to his home and his boyfriend. 

The street he turned onto was busier. Plenty of lights were on in buildings nearby, and the shuddered shopfronts all had lights and cameras outside their doors. There was even a bodega open across the street. Feeling a little more secure after a block and a half, Remus stopped and turned around.

The street behind him was deserted. No would-be muggers or assailants, no cars driving slowly with their headlights turned off. No one whatsoever. The prickling feeling of being watched still lingered across his skin though.

“Hello, Remus,” a quiet voice said from right behind him.

“Shit!” Remus swore as he whirled around again. He fumbled and dropped the stun gun while trying to yank it out of his bag. Heart hammering in his chest, he looked up to find a man standing in the shadow of a bus shelter just a few feet in front of him in the direction he’d just been walking.

The man was young, white, and dressed in a badly rumpled navy-blue suit. 

“How many times have I told you not to do that?” Remus snapped. He shot the younger man a glare as he stooped to pick up the stun gun and stuff it back in his bag. Remus should have seen him. The shadows weren’t that deep or that long with all of the streetlights. There shouldn’t have been anywhere for the other man to hide or creep around him, and no way for him to know that Remus would take this turn in the first place.

Of course, by now he was used to these sudden, unexpected appearances of his secret informant. Though he still hadn’t figured out how Regulus could be so damn stealthy. It was almost like the bastard just appeared out of thin air.

“Sorry,” Regulus said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Can we get off the street?” He cast a nervous look up and down the empty sidewalk, taking in the apartment buildings, the bodega, and the dark storefronts.

“Yeah, of course,” Remus grumbled, following as Regulus sidestepped a pool of light cast by a streetlamp and darted into a narrow alley that reeked of spoiled Chinese food. In the dim light, Remus could see Regulus still looked like hell. 

Remus had researched his informant; he knew who Regulus was behind the pseudonym. From all the old photos Remus had seen, Regulus had been handsome once, not stunningly so, but good-looking enough that, combined with his family’s money, a whole lot of people would have called him gorgeous. Now his skin had an ashen, almost translucent quality to it with dark hollows beneath his eyes and his sharp cheekbones. 

He always seemed to be wearing the same suit whenever he met Remus. Once, it must have been the height of conservative men’s fashion, but now his clothes were wrinkled and stained like he’d been living and sleeping in them for days on end. His tie hung loose and limp around his neck, and his black hair was unkempt and tangled.

“How are you?” Remus asked, genuinely concerned. Regulus was doing a brave, terrifying thing talking to Remus, and it was obviously taking a toll on his health.

As always, Regulus waved his concern away. “I’m as good as I’m going to get. How did things go at the bank? Were you able to get into my safety deposit box?”

_You could look at a newspaper and see for yourself_ , Remus thought but didn’t say out loud. The article based on the documents in Regulus’s safety deposit box had been Tuesday’s front page headline. Remus felt a swell of giddy pride thinking about it. TV news programs and other papers were picking up the story, adding their bits and pieces to it. Even the politicians and law enforcement agencies were getting involved now. There was no doubt though that the scoop belonged to Remus and the _Daily Prophet_.

“It went well,” Remus told his source as he went hunting through his bag again, this time for his voice recorder. It was a bulky old handheld recorder that still used magnetic tapes rather than the digital recorder Remus used for everything else. Remus had had to dig through a storage closet at work to even find such a relic in the first place.

That was one of his source’s many little quirks though, a price Remus had to pay for the information Regulus gave him. He was only allowed to record Regulus’s voice, never any pictures or video, and only on tape, not digitally. There were other odd little rules too, he wasn’t allowed to touch Regulus, to initiate any contact with him, or to even speak the man’s real name out loud. 

Half the time Remus felt like they were playing an elaborate game or reenacting scenes from _All the President’s Men_. At least Regulus was a better codename for his source than Deep Throat, even if it ultimately did a poor job of hiding the man’s real identity. Remus had told him as much, but Regulus insisted on the pseudonym. 

Remus played along because, despite his peculiarities and idiosyncratic rules, Regulus’s information was always good. Even if it made him feel like a discount amalgamation of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein sometimes.

“Fudge is denying everything of course, and Malfoy’s brought in _all_ his lawyers, but they’re getting nervous and it sounds like the FBI is going to start looking into things too,” Remus said eagerly, trying to elicit even a tiny bit of excitement or any sort of emotion from Regulus. The other man gave him a thin smile, but it didn’t reach his shadowed gray eyes. Nothing ever did.

“That’s good,” Regulus said nodding jerkily. 

“Reg, we’re _this close_ to taking down the Mayor of New York City and a real estate mogul for corruption and racketeering. It’s _fantastic_!” Remus insisted. 

“It’s _progress_ ,” Regulus corrected him primly.

Exposing the illicit deals and bribes that Mayor Cornelius Fudge was taking was, in Remus’s opinion, something to be celebrated, lauded. It was the stuff of Pulitzers. For Regulus though, it was just another stepping stone. One more box ticked on an insanely ambitious checklist. Despite working with Regulus for almost six months, Remus still didn’t know the entirety of his informant’s endgame. Regulus kept his cards close to his chest, doling out information to Remus bit by bit.

It frustrated Remus to no end, especially when Regulus hinted that there really was an ultimate goal to all of their work, that there was something—or someone—linking together all the rabbit holes he’d sent Remus down. Remus even had a name for it, for them, one Regulus had let slip a month ago. The Knights of Walpurgis—some sort of Ivy League secret society cum criminal conspiracy. Remus’s head hurt just thinking about it.

Sometimes this whole thing seemed unbelievable. It was the stuff of thriller novels, not real life. And yet, every time Remus had his doubts, Regulus offered him another lead, another piece of information that Remus could verify, could find evidence to support, that he could build an investigation around. 

That, he suspected, was why Regulus only gave him small amounts of information at a time. He was afraid it would all become too improbable, too fantastical for Remus to believe all at once. Regulus seemed to be afraid that if he pushed too far too fast, Remus would dismiss him as a conspiracy nut. 

It wasn’t an unfounded fear either. When Regulus had first approached Remus, the reporter _had_ dismissed him as a crackpot. Remus had encountered real conspiracies before, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred they were never as intricate and far-reaching as the picture Regulus had painted for him. Honestly, Remus had almost used his stun gun on the young man the first time Regulus had tracked him down on a dark side street at night.

Then Regulus had made it personal.

He had dangled the truth behind the death of Remus’s childhood best friend in front of him, promising answers to a tragic accident where the facts had never quite added up.

Of course, the facts still didn’t all add up in the deaths of Lily and James Potter. Regulus had given Remus enough information to prove that the fire that had engulfed the Potters’ house in upstate New York hadn’t been the accident all the official reports claimed it was. However, after using that mystery to hook Remus in, Regulus had been reluctant to say anything more about the case. _“You’re not ready for that, not yet,”_ Regulus always said whenever Remus brought it up. 

Still, even with every success, every frontpage feature that brought down another criminal or exposed another wrong, Remus couldn’t let the Potters go. He owed Lily more than that, especially if, as Regulus had suggested, Lily’s young son really hadn’t died in the fire alongside his parents. 

That wasn’t the story for tonight though. 

“So, if we’re going to nail Fudge,” Remus said, pulling their conversation back to the present article he was writing. “We have to have concrete links between him and Lucius Malfoy. I need a money trail or some other evidence of the bribes.”

Regulus frowned and began to pace through the deep shadows of the alley. “You’ve got it backwards,” Regulus insisted. “We’re going through Fudge to take down Malfoy. _He’s_ the real threat.”

Remus wasn’t sure he agreed. Lucius Malfoy was a slumlord, profiteer, and racketeer, but Fudge took his money and the money of many other monsters and enabled their crimes. Get Fudge out of office—or even better, into prison—and much of Malfoy’s power would dry up. Remus wasn’t going to argue the point with Regulus though. He was happy to kill two birds with one series of articles.

Regulus stopped pacing and seemed to concentrate on thinking. 

“There’s a series of emails between Fudge and Lucius that discuss a campaign donation made in exchange for help with a rezoning permit. I copied them from his inbox before—”

Here Regulus cut off. He did that a lot, stop himself just before he spoke of whatever had made him run from his former life as the privileged son of an old, powerful family. It was clear from the way he doled out information to Remus that Regulus had had been planning for a while to betray the Knights of Walpurgis, likely to the police or the FBI in exchange for immunity for his own part in the group’s many crimes. He had carefully gathered evidence, stealing documents, copying emails, recording conversations. He’d even taken the precautions of scattering his evidence in many different places to help hide it.

Then something had happened and Regulus’s carefully laid plans had fallen apart. He’d run, disappearing from public life, all but disappearing entirely. He didn’t even dare to come out of hiding long enough to collect any of his evidence cashes, instead sending Remus on strange scavenger hunts through the city to find keys to safety deposit boxes or papers stashed under loose floorboards in old ballet studios. 

“They’re on a thumb drive I left at my mother’s house,” Regulus said. “She’s in France right now, so if I give you the codes to the alarms you should be able to get it easily.”

Remus frowned and stopped the tape recorder for a moment. “Reg, I’m pretty sure that still counts as breaking and entering.”

Regulus sighed and shrugged dramatically. “I can’t do it myself, Remus. I can’t go back there, it has to be you.” Remus was still hesitant, Regulus must have seen it in his face, because he baited the trap even further. “You should know, there’s something else on that drive,” he said.

Now it was Remus’s turn to huff. “Let me guess, the location of where Jimmy Hoffa is buried?” He asked sarcastically. Remus knew he had skirted close to the law during investigations before, but he’d never outright _broken_ it before. There was a line, and he didn’t want to cross it.

Regulus shook his head. “It’s evidence in the Longbottom case. Voice recordings. Confessions.”

The tape recorder fell out of Remus’s hands as he hurried to turn it back on again. He kept swearing as he stooped to pick it up, praying it hadn’t broken, because he wanted every single word of this on the record. He’d been joking with the Hoffa jab, but the Longbottom case was almost as notorious. Given time, it would probably become even more famous considering the brutality of what had been done to NYPD Detective Frank Longbottom and his wife, FBI Special Agent Alice Longbottom.

Remus hadn’t covered the story personally, but he, like the rest of the nation, had heard all about it, had been inundated with information about it for months. If the deaths of the Potters had been a cover-up so complete everyone still believed it was an accident, the attack and torture of the Longbottoms had been an epic tragedy so mysterious it had enthralled and outraged the public in equal measures. 

Three years ago, someone had broken into the Longbottoms’ house, attacked Frank and Alice and tortured them for hours, leaving behind no traceable evidence. The Longbottoms had both survived, but they would never get out of adult care facilities again, leaving their infant son all but orphaned. Everyone knew the story, especially since no one had ever been arrested or tried for the crime.

“You know who tortured the Longbottoms?” Remus asked, stunned. He’d known Regulus’s treasure trove of secrets and conspiracies ran deep, but this was beyond what he’d ever imagined.

Regulus nodded. “You’ll get the thumb drive then?”

A part of Remus wondered if he should still hesitate, maybe insist on getting some evidence of permission from Regulus just for propriety’s sake, but he nodded. With the information Regulus was describing Remus’s career would be made, and he could bring justice to two people who’d lost everything. 

“Good,” Regulus said coolly. “While you’re there there’s something else I need you to get for me, it’ll be hidden with the drive in a hollowed out copy of _The Iliad_ in a bedroom on the third floor. It’s a locket…”


	5. Chapter 3

Paranormal researchers, in Remus Lupin’s admittedly recent experience, tended to fall into one of two categories. 

The first were the true believers. They were the ones who would swear to their last breathes that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of by conventional modern science, to paraphrase the Bard. More than a few of them went broke trying to prove their beliefs to the world as they invested in expensive equipment, travelled to conventions or supposed supernatural hotspots, and self-published books on their theories or experiences. 

Some of them genuinely needed a good therapist and possibly medication. Others had simply found something to believe in, and just like a great many true believers of anything, they could let their faith blind them to the irrationality of their beliefs. Remus usually felt an exasperated sort of pity for this category of people, but then, he felt that way about most religions and people who got way too into fad diets.

The second sort were the con artists, the charlatans, the greedy manipulators who did their level best to deceive and defraud others by preying on their beliefs. They were generally the sort who got book deals with major publishers or TV shows where they edited and engineered their trips to haunted houses to create enough drama to fill an hour on cable. They were the ones who tended to make money off their “research.” They left a bitter taste in Remus’s mouth, especially when they looked at _him_ with veiled pity as they answered his questions.

Looking up at the sleek, glass and marble façade of the Diagon Hotel, Remus could take a good guess as to which category Sirius Black would fall into. 

Lingering a little way away from the front doors, Remus caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored glass of the hotel’s windows. He winced at what he saw. Dressed as he was in faded jeans, scuffed oxfords, a plain t-shirt, and a second-hand sports coat, Remus might never even make it inside the lobby if the doorman was feeling a bit snobby. They were just about the nicest clothes he had left in his closet, but that wasn’t saying much these days. Everything he owned anymore was shabby, second-hand or both. There wasn’t anything for it though, and any longer though and he would be officially late. 

The doorman and the valet both wrinkled their noses at him but didn’t challenge his right to enter. The lobby was a continuation of the façade out front, all dark marble, bright metal, and mirrors accompanied by fresh lilies and shockingly magenta velvet chairs. Remus bypassed the front desk and made a left toward the open archway that led into the bar.

The bar in the Diagon Hotel was just as sleek and glamorous as the lobby and the façade outside. Remus paused just inside, clutching at the strap of his messenger bag for comfort. Even at his best, when he’d had money to spare, Remus could never have afforded to drink at a place like this. There had been a few times when he’d been invited out to upscale bars or restaurants by Barny Cuffe, the editor-in-chief of _The Daily Prophet_ , usually after one of his articles had made it to the front page. Cuffe had always liked to show off his successes.

Perhaps it was the working class, small-town boy deep inside of him, but Remus had never felt comfortable at those dinners, even if he wasn’t footing the bill. He’d always had to remind himself not to gape at the price of every a la carte item or choke at the bar tabs that were usually more than his father used to make in a week. Remus wasn’t on someone else’s tab tonight though, which made him even more uncomfortable as he stood in the doorway and scanned the bar.

The lighting was low, provided mostly by strange, asymmetrical chandeliers hung with small rectangles of smoky glass and candles in matching holders sat at each dark wooden table. A woman was playing something soft and unobtrusive on a piano in one corner. The bar stretched along the entire back wall, shelves reaching to the ceiling with expensive alcohol in artful bottles. 

It was only then that Remus realized he had no idea _who_ he was looking for. Black’s books had never included indicators about his age or any sort of physical description, and in all of his research, Remus hadn’t found a single photograph of the man. Even his books were lacking a customary author headshot. It seemed Black really did value his privacy, even enough to break cameras in its defense. 

The bar wasn’t crowded on a Wednesday night, only about half of the small tables were full and the counter was mostly empty, but Remus dreaded having to go from table to table asking for Sirius Black.

A server passed by with an empty tray, eying Remus suspiciously, like she agreed with his private assessment that he didn’t belong there.

“Excuse me,” Remus said, stopping her and trying to smile. “I’m supposed to meet someone here, a Mr. Black?” 

The woman’s face brightened a bit and lost its condescending edge. “Sirius Black?” She asked. When he nodded she favored him with an actual smile. “Of course, sir, right this way.”

She led him toward a small table in a secluded far corner of the bar thick with shadows. It turned the table’s sole occupant into little more than a silhouette. Remus was about eighty-five percent certain the dramatic effect was intentional. He rolled his eyes at the showmanship. It certainly fit with the theatricality he’d encountered in so many ghost hunters of the charlatan variety.

As Remus and the server approached, the silhouette shifted in the low candlelight, half turning toward them. Remus stopped dead in his tracks as his heart leapt into his throat.

 _It couldn’t be!_

Black leaned a little further forward out of the shadows, his features coming into focus, and Remus’s heart crept back down into his chest, though it continued to beat fast and erratic. For just a moment, Remus had thought he was seeing someone familiar—a ghost from his past, though not the literal sort _The Quibbler_ specialized in. Now he could see that the similarities were superficial, dark hair, fair skin, and light eyes. 

This was not Regulus. 

Though the similar theme between the two men’s names occurred to him for the first time. Coincidence, of course. Regulus had never been more than the pseudonym of a liar anyway. As far as Remus could tell, Sirius Black had been born with his astronomically-themed name. 

“Remus Lupin?” Black asked. His voice had a rough, gravelly edge to it. Combined with the subtle, aristocratic English accent it made Remus think of smoke and whiskey. Suddenly his heart was beating too fast for an entirely different reason. 

This was another thing he had not been prepared for. Sirius Black was handsome. Devastatingly, distractingly handsome.

Inky black hair fell to his shoulders, lustrous and elegant in a way few men could pull off. It framed a handsome, square-jawed face with a straight nose and blue-gray eyes. The tailored cut of his suit gave the impression of lean strength, even seated.

“Er…yes?” Remus said. Somehow it came out sounding like a question more than an answer. Remus flushed red. “Yes, sorry, Sirius Black, right?”

Black’s lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. He stood and stepped around the table to offer Remus a hand to shake. His palm was rougher and more calloused than Remus had expected. There was a natural strength behind his firm grip as well. Remus knew hands like this; his father had had hands like this. They belonged to men who worked physically demanding jobs and worked hard. It should have stood out against his otherwise sophisticated appearance, but somehow Black’s hardened palms matched the precarious hint of a smile on his lips and the sharp attentiveness his eyes.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Black said formally. He gestured toward the seat across the small table as he slid back into his own chair. “Would you like something to drink?”

He gestured to the server, whose presence had completely slipped Remus’s mind as soon as he’d seen Black. She stepped forward, offering Black a bright, flirtatious smile that Remus could empathize with. Black returned the smile indulgently, though it didn’t reach his blue-gray eyes. 

Still half tongue-tied, Remus blinked before he could process the question and shake his head. The last thing he needed right now was something else to cloud his brain. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t. On the job and all,” he said, shifting his bag up onto his lap and pulling out his notepad and a pen.

The smile Black gave him was smaller with a taunting edge to it, but somehow that seemed more genuine than the grin he’d flashed at the server. “Please, on me,” Black said in his smoke and whiskey voice. “I find it hard to trust someone I can’t share a drink with.”

A rational voice told Remus to beg off, that it wasn’t professional to drink while on the job, even when the job took him to a bar with a handsome man sitting across the table from him. On the other hand, Black sounded like he might be more open if Remus accepted a drink.

“Whiskey,” Remus said, blurting out the first thing that popped into his head, which he’d only thought of because it reminded him of Black’s voice. Thankfully the lighting was low enough no one could see the flush creeping up his neck and cheeks, or so Remus hoped.

“Your preferred label, sir?” The server asked politely.

Remus was stumped. He only knew the bottom shelf at the liquor store with any familiarity; vodka that tasted like paint thinner and gin that smelled like those tree-shaped air fresheners. 

“They make a wonderful old fashioned,” Black offered helpfully. Remus nodded hastily.

“That sounds great,” he said. 

“I’ll have the same,” Black said, handing the server the empty glass that had been sitting on the table in front of him before she left.

“So, uh, thank you for agreeing to an interview, Mr. Black,” Remus said as the server wound her way back toward the bar. 

“Of course, and, please, call me Sirius,” he said. Remus nodded even though he had no intention of crossing that line of familiarity. “I apologize for the short notice. I know you couldn’t have had much time to prepare since I only spoke to Albus this morning, but I had some time tonight, and I’m afraid my schedule is going become much less predictable in the near future.”

“Are you in town for business then?” Remus asked, sidling them through pleasantries and toward an actual interview. 

“Always,” Black said, smiling again. Remus couldn’t help but think though, that he heard just a trickle of something bitter in the man’s voice.

Remus pulled out his voice recorder as Black spoke and held it up for him to see. “Is it all right if I record our conversation?” 

“By all means, Mr. Lupin,” Black said with a permissive wave of his hand.

“Oh, Remus is fine,” he replied as he started the recorder and placed it on the table between them, right next to the candle in its little glass container. 

“All right then, Remus,” Black said. Remus swallowed at the sound of his name rumbling across those lips. Somehow the familiar syllables sounded very different with his accent. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Uh, well, would you like to start with why you’re here in New York? Are you on a case? Investigating anything interesting?” Remus asked, slowly starting to feel more comfortable as he slipped into the familiar pattern of an interview.

“I am here on a case, unfortunately, it’s not one I’m willing to talk about publicly right now,” Black said. “That probably doesn’t help your article, does it?” To his credit, Black did seem genuinely apologetic.

“I’m sure it would have been an interesting addition, but there are other things we can talk about,” Remus assured him. “I managed to read one of your books today—”

“Really?” Black interjected, sounding amused and a little impressed. “That was fast. Which one did you read?”

“ _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ ,” Remus said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Black groaned. “God, that’s got to be the worst of the lot of them,” he muttered. “I feel like I should apologize or offer you some sort of compensation for the time you lost. That case was very…difficult, and I think that showed up in the writing.”

A shiver seemed to run down Black’s spine. It was at odds with the confident, fearless persona in his books. Although, what was a little more fiction on top of a mountain of fabrications, Remus thought silently.

“It was certainly a…surreal story,” Remus said tactfully.

Black cocked his head and eyed Remus thoughtfully for a moment before he let out a startling bark of a laugh. “Oh dear, you think I’m full of shit, don’t you?”

His declaration caught Remus off guard and he stumbled over his answer, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to offend the man either. “I wouldn’t say that,” Remus said evasively. He was saved from elaborating by the server as she swooped back in with their drinks. Remus chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek until she’d left again.

“It’s all right,” Black said before Remus could continue his excuse. “You’re hardly the first or even the thousandth person I’ve met who thinks I’m a lying fraud. Hell, my own publisher thinks I make it all up.” He didn’t seem offended at all. Instead he just shrugged and reached for his drink. 

For a moment, Remus wanted to ask what his trick was. How could he live with so many people thinking he was a liar? How did he shrug it off so easily? 

“I especially can’t blame you if you’ve only read _The Prisoners of Azkaban_ ,” Black continued. “I do try to substantiate my claims, but circumstances were out of my hands with that one, and the prison warden was very thorough when he swept the matter under the rug afterwards. So, is it just me you don’t believe, or is it the entire field of paranormal investigation?”

Remus picked up his own drink and took a sip to put off answering for another few seconds. The whiskey was smooth and cold and delicious, accented by hints of bitter and sweet. “I’m a journalist, Mr. Black,” Remus said diplomatically as he set his glass back on the table. “I believe what I can verify.”

Black laughed again and shook his head in amusement. “Then what in the world are you doing working for _The Quibbler_?”

The question made Remus squirm. The only thing worse than people who recognized his name and knew his story was having to explain it to those who didn’t.

“It pays the bills,” Remus said evasively.

Thankfully, Black seemed to accept the answer with a nod. “I can understand that,” Black replied, and somehow, despite the bespoke suit and fancy hotel, Remus believed he really could. “And please, do call me Sirius.” His eyes caught Remus and he smiled in a way that warmed Remus’s stomach even more than the whiskey. Oh, that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

“I won’t be able to satisfy your need for evidence and verifiable facts, I’m afraid, Remus.” Black continued. “You’re welcome to ask whatever you want though, and to print whatever you want about how full of shite I am.”

“I won’t do that,” Remus said. “That’s not the sort of article my editor’s looking for.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I imagine Minerva McGonagall would love to see me taken down a few pegs, even if she’d never say it out loud. I imagine it would make a few of your other coworkers happy as well.” Black chuckled affectionately as he said it. Remus began to wonder how many of his coworkers Black knew and how well. Had he been given this interview because Sirius Black had already pissed off everyone else at _The Quibbler_?

Something of it must have shown on Remus’s face, because Black’s smile widened. “You’ve heard stories then?” He asked. “Which ones, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Marlene McKinnon’s camera,” Remus answered, it seemed safer to be honest than to try and insist he’d heard nothing but good things or nothing at all about Black.

Roguish was a good way to describe the way Black grinned. Mischief and delight danced through his eyes and the smile seemed to light up his entire face. It dispelled anything brooding and mysterious about him, but it made him even more attractive in Remus’s eyes. “Ah, that one’s not so bad,” Black said with a chuckle. “Thank god you didn’t talk to the Prewett brothers or Dr. Flitwick about me.”

Remus bit his lip to stop from smiling in return, certain it would look foolish and besotted. Black wasn’t what he’d expected given Marlene’s story. He was genteel, quick-witted, and seemed to have an almost self-deprecating sense of humor. Remus had expected someone more self-important and temperamental, perhaps unstable even. 

“Should I dare to ask?” 

“Not while you’re recording me,” Black replied teasingly. “I don’t much care what other people think of me these days, but some of those stories could get me into real trouble.” He said it lightly, but the statement made Remus raise an eyebrow. All right, he could see Black getting into trouble with the Prewetts, who frequently traveled to track down stories for _The Quibbler_ , and who proudly boasted that they had been arrested for trespassing in fourteen states and three Canadian provinces while hunting for Bigfoot and other cryptids. The real question was what kind of trouble he’d gotten into with tiny, eccentric Dr. Flitwick, the paper’s resident Ufologist?

“Not stories likely to turn up in your next book then?” Remus asked. If Black wouldn’t talk about what he was in New York working on perhaps he could be persuaded to open up about his books.

Black’s smile stayed in place, but sorrow crept into his eyes. “Actually, I don’t write anymore.”

Remus swiftly recalled the listings on his publisher’s website. In the space of seven years Black had put out twelve books, but there hadn’t been any new releases for the past three years. He’d made a note to ask about that, hoping to get a scoop on some long-awaited new memoir. There would be no luck on that front either it seemed.

“Why did you stop?” Remus asked. This might be something he could at least include in his article, unlike the rest of their conversation so far.

Black gave a dismissive wave of his hand, but it was just one more expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A lot of reasons, really,” he said. “I don’t need the money, and my publishers seemed to think they’d bought a large chunk of my time along with each of my manuscripts. I have better things to do than go on book tours or sit at signings and that sort of nonsense. It took me a decade to realize it, but I really don’t have the right temperament to be an author.”

“So you’ve quit writing to focus on the other side of your work, the investigations?” Remus asked.

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“All right,” Remus said. “Let’s talk about that then.”

The interview took off from there, falling into a natural rhythm that made it feel more like a conversation than an interrogation. Black was as good of a storyteller in person as he was on the page. He was witty and funny and spoke with his hands, gesturing to emphasize his words when he got caught up in what he was talking about. Remus didn’t believe in ghosts or demons or monsters or magic, but when Black recounted cases he had worked, for the very first time since his mother had died, Remus _wanted_ to believe in something he couldn’t prove.

Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe the things Black talked about, the monsters he said he’d faced, were real.

After the first old fashioned, Remus had somehow allowed Black to buy him two more drinks and he felt a little tipsy. It was horribly unprofessional, but then, so was writing about alligator-people.

“So, what made you want to become a ghost hunter?” Remus asked.

Black wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I don’t like that term ‘ghost hunter,’” he said. “I don’t, as a rule, pursue or seek to exterminate ghosts. There have been a few exceptions over the years—particularly nasty spirits that developed enough power to become dangerous rather than just unsettling or a nuisance—but most of the time actually hunting ghosts would be as cruel and senseless as kicking a three-legged dog. Ghosts are already dead, and they have enough issues without me poking at them with EMF meters or sticking night vision cameras where they aren’t wanted.”

He said it in such a blasé manner that Remus couldn’t help but laugh. In return, Black raised his glass in a sarcastic salute.

“So, you don’t hunt ghosts?” Remus asked a bit incredulously. “I thought that was pretty much a staple of this whole thing.” He waved a hand through the air, gesturing to indicate…he wasn’t entirely sure what, but Black seemed to understand and shrugged.

“Proving the existence of the paranormal is _the_ goal for most ghost hunters, paranormal investigators or researchers or whatever they want to call themselves—I avoid those titles for myself as well. Not for me though, I’m no evangelist for the supernatural. I know what I know, and most of the time I don’t care whether the rest of the world believes the same things I do or not.”

“So, why all the books? Why spend your entire life investigating all this if you’re not trying to prove something to others?” Remus really did want to know. Black seemed perfectly well-adjusted and rational, and genuinely didn’t seem to be after fame or fortune. So why?

“It’s personal for me.” Black said. Something very subtle changed in both his voice and his posture.

“Oh?” Remus asked carefully. So far, Black had been very careful to steer the interview in a different direction whenever Remus’s questions had strayed too close to his personal life. Remus didn’t want to scare him off the topic again.

Black stared down at the melting ice cubes in his old fashioned as if he were trying to decide something. 

“You’ve read one of my books and I’ve told you about at least a dozen other cases I’ve worked, I know you don’t believe me, but those things are real, and they’re often very dangerous. I do the work because it needs to be done. People get hurt otherwise. People die otherwise. You don’t believe that though, do you, Remus?”

Remus bit his lip. “I believe that you believe it?” He made it a question rather than a statement or accusation, as if that would somehow make it sound less condescending.

“Do you think I’m crazy then? Delusional?” Black didn’t sound angry or offended. If anything he sounded mildly amused as he leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, and watched Remus.

“No,” Remus said honestly. “My mother was Catholic, very devoted to her faith too. I’m not a believer in her religion, or any other, but that doesn’t mean I think she was crazy. I just didn’t believe what she did. I don’t see how what you believe is any different.”

“Besides the lack of a hierarchy and a really old book?” Black joked, but he smiled warmly and nodded. “I can respect that, but, humor me for a moment, would you. What would it take to make you believe in, say…ghosts?”

Remus had considered this subject before. It was impossible not to working for _The Quibbler_. He’d had plenty of “evidence” shown to him by coworkers or people he’d interviewed—videos, photographs, readings from instruments measuring dozens of different things, and more anecdotal evidence than he could shake a stick at. None of it had ever been enough to convince Remus though. It all lacked something truly scientific.

“I’m not sure,” was still the only answer Remus had.

“What if you saw a ghost with your own eyes?” Black asked curiously.

Remus shrugged one shoulder. “To be honest, probably not. I mean, I’ve read all about the ways people have faked hauntings, and you can’t always trust your own eyes. I’ve seen some very convincing stage magicians, but even if my eyes tell me the hat was empty that doesn’t mean the rabbit isn’t hiding in a secret compartment inside.”

Black laughed. Remus liked his laugh. It was rough and loud and matched his real smile. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Remus Lupin, but I do respect a man with convictions.” He leaned across the table suddenly, getting closer than he had to Remus all evening. The candlelight turned his skin into gold and deep shadow. 

“So if not sight, what senses would you trust then? Not hearing I imagine…what about… _touch…_ ”

He lifted a hand to hover over the little candleholder, one finger tracing around the rim.

 _Is he_ flirting _with me?_ Remus wondered. He was…not opposed to the idea, Remus realized. Black was undeniably good looking…and charming...and surprisingly interesting to talk to. Remus bit his lip. He really couldn’t lose his head over a man right now though, especially not one he was supposed to be interviewing for work.

He cleared his throat and reread the last few notes he’d made to get himself back on track. “All right, you don’t like to be referred to as a ghost hunter, a paranormal investigator, or a paranormal researcher, so how do _you_ classify what you do for a living?”

Black smiled again, albeit with a strangely rueful edge to it. “My best friend, James, used to accompany me on a lot of cases, and he always called what we did ‘paranormal adventuring.’ It’s always struck me as fitting.”

“All right then,” Remus said with a nod and a small smile of his own, writing down the words _“Paranormal Adventurer”_ in his notes. It seemed a fitting description for Black based on what he’d read and what he’d seen of the man in person. 

“On to the next question then?” Black asked.

“You don’t have much of an official presence online,” Remus pointed out. 

“You Googled me?” Black asked, sounding surprised and a little amused.

“Of course. That’s one of the first steps I take when writing anything these days.” Remus said. “I found some information on your books, but even then, I’m fairly certain this is the very first interview you’ve agreed to do for anyone.”

“It is,” Black said, raising his glass in salute to Remus. “You should feel honored.” He teased.

“I hardly think you agreed to an interview for _The Quibbler_ because of me. Based off what you’ve said, and what my editor said this morning, my guess is you either lost a bet, or you owe Dumbledore a favor.” 

Black threw back his head and laughed loud enough to draw the attention of half the bar. When he’d stopped he flashed Remus a toothy grin. “I think I like you, Remus,” he said, his voice a shade hoarser—from the laughing, Remus was sure. “You’re close, but not quite correct. I’ve known Albus Dumbledore for years, and I know better than to put myself in a position where I owe him a debt. However, I’m more than happy to have _him_ owe _me_ a favor.”

Remus nodded. He could relate. The feeling that he owed Dumbledore a debt sometimes hung over him like his own personal sword of Damocles. “The only other place I found where your name came up was on message boards.”

“Oof,” Black said, wincing in sympathy. “If you went wading into those dark corners of the internet you’re far braver than I am, Remus.” He was doing it again, Remus realized suddenly. Black was charming and naturally flirtatious, and he used that to direct conversations where he wanted them to go. It was more difficult with an interview, but he’d managed to derail Remus from digging in too deep about why he’d stopped writing, and now he was doing it again over the message board posts.

“There was a surprising lack of the usual internet debris, baseless insults or accusations when it came to you, actually.” Remus refused to be derailed. 

“Surprising, since I generally think of myself as being quite insult-worthy.” Again, the charming, self-effacing deflection. Remus was poking at something Black didn’t want to talk about, but he wasn’t going to back down this time.

“There were some interesting ideas floating around, particularly the one that you seem to be haunted.”

Remus paused, expecting a laugh or a clever comment meant to divert the conversation again, but Black merely sipped his drink and watched Remus with a considering eye. Remus cleared his throat and dove straight in. “So, is there any truth to those rumors? Is there a ghost or evil spirit haunting you?”

Black leaned back in his chair, the movement languid. He was smiling and it seemed genuine, but there was also an edge to it. He was debating what to say, Remus realized, how much to say. Black opened his mouth to speak, but then something changed in his face as he seemed to spot something over Remus’s shoulder. He frowned.

Instinctively, Remus turned to see what the other man was staring at. It was a man sitting alone at the bar, his body angled toward them as he sipped a cocktail. He was a large, baby-faced white man with buzzed blonde hair and a nasty purple scar cutting across his scalp. Though he wore an expensive looking suit like most of the men in the bar, it only served to make him look more like a hired thug. An enormous hand was wrapped around the delicate stem of his martini glass, and Remus knew the man could break the glass with a pinch of his fingers, as he’d once snapped Remus’s wrist with only a little more effort.

The pen fell from Remus’s suddenly limp fingers.

“Do you know that man?” Black asked. There was something in his voice that sounded almost like anger, it sounded dangerous. Remus barely heard him though. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking. Then, Evan Rosier realized he’d been noticed and he grinned.

Remus looked away instantly, ducking his head like he could somehow hide, like Rosier might forget he’d just seen him. New York was a big city, and after all the lawsuits had been dropped or settled, Remus had managed to avoid ever coming face to face with anyone from his old investigations again. Until now.

There were rational explanations, Remus knew it. The Diagon Hotel was fancy enough for a trust fund brute like Rosier to frequent for a drink. It could be a coincidence, couldn’t it? Remus’s instincts refused to believe that, and if it wasn’t a coincidence…

Remus got to his feet so suddenly he almost knocked over his chair. 

“I’m sorry, I need to go,” Remus said. Part of his brain was demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing. He was in the middle of an interview. It was a small part though; the rest of his mind was screaming. Why here? Why now? Hadn’t Rosier and his friends already ruined Remus’s life enough? What more could they possibly want from him?

Stuffing his notebook and phone back into his bag, Remus’s fingers wrapped around his stun gun. However, its presence wasn’t nearly as reassuring as he’d hoped it would be. After all, he’d had it the last time and it hadn’t done him a lick of good, only given Rosier a reason to break his arm when Remus had pulled it on him. A hand touched his shoulder and Remus jumped, nearly drawing the stun gun out in the middle of the bar before he recognized Black. 

“Remus, is everything all right?” Black asked, he’d stood as well, and was looking between Remus and Rosier with concern. He’d angled himself between the two of them, almost like he was shielding Remus.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, I—I just have to go,” Remus said. He knew this was irresponsible, unprofessional, completely ridiculous, but he needed to get out of there. He needed to get away from a man who had once helped beat him to a pulp in an alley, who had threatened to kill Remus over the articles he’d written.

Black opened his mouth to say something, but Remus had already shrugged off his hand and bolted toward the door. He swung wide away from the bar, cutting through the maze of scattered tables and drawing even more attention to himself as he fled. When he made the open expanse of the lobby, Remus risked a look behind him. He couldn’t see Rosier from his angle, but no one was following him out, not Black or Rosier. 

Remus could feel the eyes of the front desk staff on him as he stood in the middle of the lobby, clutching his bag close to his chest and shaking. He needed to get out of there, to get home, somewhere behind locked doors.

He could hardly afford the extra expense, but as he stumbled out the front doors of the hotel, Remus headed straight for the closest taxi. The thought of waiting at bus stops or subway stations right now made him feel too exposed and vulnerable.

His heart didn’t stop racing the entire ride, and his hands were still shaking as he handed the driver money, receiving a scowl for the meager tip that was all Remus could spare. He sprinted up the stairs, looking over his shoulder and down the stairwell at every landing.

Even when he was behind the locked and bolted front door with the lock on his bedroom door thrown as well, Remus didn’t feel safe. He’d thought it was all in the past, that his life, miserable as it might be, was his own again. Somehow he’d thought wrong.


	6. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, I wildly changed Luna's age to include her as a young adult in this story while Harry, Draco, and any others of their generation I wind up including in here are only about 4 years old. I just really wanted to use Luna as a character, and it's an AU, so I went for it. She's not the only one whose age I messed around with either since I have Tonks as being about 11-12 when she turns up later.

Sirius was surprised to find a familiar face sitting at the receptionist’s desk inside _The Quibbler’s_ offices. She had glittery orange earbuds in and was bent very close to the computer monitor, her nose almost touching the screen as she squinted at something. Grinning mischievously, Sirius walked right past the young woman, still a girl really, without her noticing him at all. He crept around to stand right behind her, leaning down until he could see what had captured her attention so thoroughly. 

It was a grainy video that looked like it had been taken on a cell phone at night. As he watched, glowing points of red blinked out of the dark, rustling underbrush. 

“It’s a fake,” Sirius whispered in the girl’s ear. 

If he’d been hoping to startle her though, he was sorely disappointed when she didn’t even blink. For a moment, he thought she hadn’t heard him at all, then Luna Lovegood said, “No it’s not,” in a very matter-of-fact tone.

She paused the video and pulled her headphones out before swiveling her chair around and blinking up at Sirius, a sleepy smile on her pale pink lips. Luna brushed a long strand of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear, accidentally tangling it around a dangling earring shaped like a radish of all things. 

“Daddy sent me that video from Australia, it’s a gunni.” She swiveled back toward the computer screen and pulled out the pen that had been tucked behind her left ear. Using it as a pointer, she tapped a space a little ways above the red eyes. “If you look close, you can see the antlers just here. I’m going to ask Ms. McKinnon if she can clean up the images so you see it better.”

Swiveling the other way this time, she turned back to Sirius and blinked imperturbable silvery eyes up at him. Then, without warning, she reached out and wrapped her arms around Sirius in a tight hug. It was awkward since he was standing and she was still sitting, and her arms essentially wrapped around his waist, her cheek bumping against his hip. Sirius chuckled and rumpled her hair into a staticky mess.

“It’s good to see you, Luna,” Sirius said. “What’re you doing in New York though?”

She pulled back and shrugged nonchalantly. “I think I’m going to go to college,” Luna said. “I don’t know what I want to study or even what school I want to attend, but I have a little while to think about it before I need to turn in any applications.”

Sirius blinked and did the math in his head. “God,” he said shaking his head in dismay. “I still think of you as being that scabby-kneed little eleven-year-old who almost drowned trying to find mermaids in the Mediterranean.” 

“You were very gallant diving into the water to save me,” Luna replied. “I was rather in love with you for several years after that. Don’t worry, I figured out why it would never work.”

“Good, you deserve far better than me,” Sirius said with a rueful smile. James and Lily had teased him to no end when the lovestruck girl had dogged his heels for the rest of their stay in Cyprus. “Your dad’s okay with you coming back to New York?”

Luna sighed. Twelve years ago, Xenophilius Lovegood had sold his stake in _The Quibbler_ to Dumbledore, and left New York City with his young daughter, vowing never to return to the city where his beloved wife had been murdered. Xeno had been travelling the world ever since, searching for impossible creatures and writing surprisingly good books. Sirius had crossed paths with Xeno and Luna several times over the years, and he’d liked the man. He might have a screw loose and be too willing to believe every strange rumor he heard, but he was a good researcher and a devoted father.

“Daddy doesn’t like it, but I think it’s important that I came back here,” Luna said with absolute certainty. “There are several good colleges in the city, and a great many important things are happening here. It’s where I’m supposed to be.” 

Sirius suppressed a shiver. He’d heard rumors about how Xeno and his late wife had built themselves a fortune. Xeno had inherited some money, but Pandora had turned it into a fortune with an absolutely uncanny ability to place winning bets on horse races, sporting events, and anything else. No one was sure if it was the gambling or some other vision that had gotten Pandora killed, but Sirius thought Xeno had been right to take Luna far away from New York.

Since she was a little girl, Luna had showed signs of knowing things she shouldn’t, not in a truly prophetic way, but a more instinctive, intuitive way of just always being exactly in the right place at the right time, with exactly what she needed in hand. As much as he liked the girl, Sirius didn’t think her presence in New York was a good sign.

“Oh yeah? Why do you think you’re supposed to be here?” Sirius asked, knowing he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer out of the girl. True to form she gave him a misty smile.

“Well, for one thing, the receptionist here quit very suddenly yesterday, and Mr. Dumbledore needed someone to fill in. I think it will be fun to have a job.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great at it, love. First lesson though, that blinking red light on the telephone means someone’s calling you,” Sirius said, pointing out the light on the admittedly complicated looking telephone. 

Luna’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “I did wonder about that…oh, they appear to have hung up,” she said a little sadly.

“If it’s important I’m sure they’ll leave a message or call back,” Sirius assured her. “Now, Miss Receptionist, is Albus in? I need to talk to him.”

“He’s in a meeting with Ms. McGonagall, Dr. Flitwick, and Ms. Meadowes. They’re talking about Tweets, I believe. Mr. Lupin is free though, if you’d like to speak to him.”

“Now what makes you think I need to speak to him?” Sirius tried to keep his tone light and playful, but all the tension of the last night bubbled back up in his chest.

Luna just gave him a sweet smile. “Because I heard him talking to Ms. McKinnon about your interview last night. She doesn’t like you very much, but he thinks you’re handsome.” 

Sirius froze like a deer in the headlights. It took a moment for him to shake it off and pull a face at Luna. “Yes, I know Marlene doesn’t care for me,” he said, focusing on the first part of her statement rather than acknowledging the second. “Thanks for letting me know, Luna. I probably will want to talk to Mr. Lupin, but I need to speak to Albus first. I can wait in his office until he’s done with his meeting.”

Luna bit her lip like she wasn’t quite sure that was allowed but nodded. Sirius ruffled her hair again and winked. He skirted the edge of the open bullpen area, hoping to avoid Lupin or any of his old acquaintances for now. 

The gargoyle hiding in the stained glass of the office door seemed to glare at Sirius as he approached, but the door itself was unlocked, so Sirius let himself in.

Except for some of the books, the office appeared much the same as it had every time Sirius had been there. The very first time he’d been here, Sirius had been awed and confused by the clutter of antique furniture, the odd curios and cursed objects, and the walls of portraits. It had seemed so exotic, so mystical.

Sirius had been eighteen at the time, traumatized, naïve, and so, _so_ angry. He’d been searching for information, guidance, and revenge. Dumbledore had seemed so wise and powerful as he’d offered Sirius all three with a beatific smile. 

The last time Sirius had been in this office was also the last time he’d held Harry in his arms, sobbing in one of the chairs before Dumbledore’s desk as the old man calmly outlined all the reasons Sirius couldn’t keep his godson. He’d offered Sirius that same kind smile and promised that Harry would be well protected if they sent him to live with Lily’s sister. 

Sirius hated this place, but at least he knew where Albus kept the good booze. 

Meandering through the cluttered office space, Sirius gave a quick pat to the head of a badly taxidermied parrot that Albus had always insisted was a phoenix. His destination was an enormous antique globe in the back corner. When he pressed down on Madagascar, a latch clicked, allowing Sirius to pull up the top half of the globe on hidden hinges. Inside were four bottles. Sirius ran his hands over them all, debating. It was still early, not quite noon, but he’d resisted the urge to drink himself stupid after last night’s debacle, so he felt he was owed a drink today. Besides, Albus didn’t skimp when it came to his secret stash.

One bottle was a sickeningly sweet liqueur, but the other three bottles held very nice vintages of scotch, gin, and cognac. Sirius picked out the scotch and pulled back a panel on the stand beneath the globe to find glasses. 

Pouring himself two fingers of scotch, Sirius left the globe open and retreated to one of the overstuffed chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Only then did he allow himself to think back to the disaster that had been his interview with Lupin.

It had been arrogant of Sirius, arranging their meeting so quickly. Dumbledore had tried to warn him, but Sirius didn’t think the old man had warned him about the right things. Albus had cautioned him that Lupin was a particularly dedicated sort of skeptic. That one conversation with Sirius wouldn’t be able to accomplish what six months in the employ of _The Quibbler_ had failed to do and convince Lupin to believe in ghosts, demons, or magic. 

Dumbledore had warned him about all the practical things, but he’d failed to warn Sirius that he might find himself _liking_ Lupin. 

Remus Lupin was viciously smart and charming in a subtle, almost sly sort of way that must help him wheedle all sorts of information out of people. Hell, he’d already drawn out more information than Sirius had intended to give him last night. 

It didn’t help that he was handsome. Sirius closed his eyes and imagined Lupin as he’d been last night, a veritable palette of golds and browns between his curly hair, his skin, his threadbare sports jacket, and his deep amber eyes. The candlelight in the bar had made him glow. Sirius had had to stop himself from staring at those full, oh so expressive lips every time Lupin betrayed the hint of a smile. 

“Fuck,” Sirius growled, swallowing half his scotch in a frustrated gulp. He didn’t have time to moon after a damaged, cynical journalist. Sirius had arranged for their interview as a pretext to meet Lupin, to get a sense of the man because, whether he believed in it or not, Lupin was already deeply knee-deep in the supernatural. Specifically, he was entangled with the Knights of Walpurgis, which meant Remus Lupin was in very grave danger, and what he didn’t know, or didn’t believe, was very likely trying to kill him.

Rosier’s presence last night had been proof of that. 

“Fuck,” Sirius swore again as he downed the rest of his drink and got up for another. He’d just finished pouring when the door opened. 

“Good morning, Sirius,” Albus Dumbledore said mildly as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn’t seem surprised to find Sirius in his office, which meant Luna was picking up on her receptionist duties.

“Morning, Albus. Care for a drink?” Sirius held up the bottle as he turned to face the old editor. Albus raised a white eyebrow in a way Sirius knew was meant to be disapproving. Sirius had long outgrown the sting of Albus’s condemnation though. He shrugged and replaced the bottle, closing the globe again as Albus made his way around to his desk. Scotch in hand, Sirius returned to his own chair. 

“Remus Lupin is a pain in the arse,” Sirius said, not wanting to pick his way through a minefield of small talk and pleasantries with Albus. 

“I rather thought you’d like him,” Albus said. 

“I do, that’s part of the problem,” Sirius admitted, trying not to let on exactly how much of a problem it felt like. “It would be much easier if he really was just a fame-seeking liar. Then I’d have no qualms about threatening or even beating the information I need out of him.”

Albus peered at Sirius over the top of his half-moon, a look of warning in his bright blue eyes. 

“I’m not planning on hurting him,” Sirius assured Albus with all honesty. “I need him.”

“Have you tried speaking to your brother yourself?” Albus asked. 

Sirius’s jaw clenched and the good scotch turned bitter on his tongue. “Apparently, Reggie decided to take our estrangement to the grave…and beyond. I’ve tried three different mediums, spirit boards, all of that. I even went on a bloody vision quest, which was embarrassing and utterly useless. If his spirit is still lingering, Reggie doesn’t want to talk to _me_. Lupin is the last person he spoke to, the person he chose to trust with all his dirty little secrets.” 

And didn’t that rankle? His little brother had finally grown both a spine and a conscious, and he’d reached out to a perfect stranger—and a reporter of all people—rather than ask Sirius for help. 

Albus tented his fingers and rested his bearded chin on them as he leaned back in his chair “That does leave us in a pickle though,” Albus said. “Are you intending to tell Remus about your shared connections?”

Sirius glared at him. They both knew honesty wouldn’t work here. Albus had been right about just how much of a stubborn bastard Lupin was. If Sirius tried to tell Lupin the whole truth right now the reporter would probably pull out that stun gun he kept in his bag. 

“The more pressing dilemma is, I’m not the only one interested in Lupin and what he knows,” Sirius said. “Evan Rosier was at my hotel bar last night, and, Albus, he wasn’t there for me.”

Silvery eyebrows drew together as Albus Dumbledore finally broke the façade of the sweet, half-daft old grandfather. Quick flashes of annoyance, consternation, and even anger chased across his wrinkled face before he was able to settle his features back into something more bland and pleasant. 

“You’re sure that Rosier wasn’t sent to watch you, Sirius?” Albus said, only sounding a little pedantic. “You’ve been in New York for almost a week now; your presence may have been noticed.”

Sirius snorted as he raised his glass to drink again. “Of course, I’ve been noticed,” he replied with a scoff. There had been a burning pain in the scar on his hip the moment his airplane had landed at JFK, and the faint echo of laughter through Sirius’s head had left no doubt that his presence had been detected. _He_ wouldn’t send a lackey to tail Sirius though. That wasn’t how the game worked. 

“I entered the country legally using my own name and passport. There was a note from Narcissa waiting for me when I checked into my hotel. That’s the point, Albus. They know I’m here, and right now they don’t give a flying fuck. I don’t doubt they’ll come for me, but not until Voldemort tells them to.” 

Sirius felt a hot surge of anger shoot through his veins at that, made all the more bitter because it barely masked a well of old, old fear. He took a long swallow of his scotch and sighed. “Besides, even if Rosier was following me originally, it won’t matter now. They know who Lupin is, and Rosier saw him meet me. Lupin’s not safe, not anymore.”

Lupin didn’t have the double-edged protection that had kept Sirius alive and relatively safe for the past fifteen years. Rosier or anyone else could step up from stalking to violence at any moment.

Dumbledore sighed and ran a thumb beneath the collar of his shirt, loosening the swirling forest green and gold tie he was wearing. He looked older than Sirius had ever seen him, and tired, he looked horribly tired. Sirius wasn’t sure he bought it. “Remus should still be protected when he’s here,” Dumbledore said. “We can hardly keep him at work at all hours, and he’s not likely to ask for or accept protection in his life outside of the office. Especially if he refuses to understand the nature and gravity of the danger he’s in.”

Sirius had been halfway around the world and largely cut off from the western world when Lupin’s star had been on the rise. He hadn’t found out about them until he’d come down out of the Himalayas to find Lupin already disgraced and desperate. Sirius had been shocked to hear of his own brother’s central role in the whole thing, as well as Reggie’s murder. He’d been tempted to abandon the project he was halfway through and rush back to New York to shake answers out of Remus Lupin, but Dumbledore had talked him down. He’d promised Sirius he would get the answers they needed from Lupin, and he’d failed.

“You told me you could handle this, Albus,” Sirius reminded him sourly. “That I didn’t need to come back here because you would pull Lupin in and find out what he knew.” 

“You’ve met him, spoken to him,” Albus said flatly. “He’s clinging to his skepticism and the worldview he’s held his entire life because it’s the only thing he has left. He has to believe in his beliefs, or he’s afraid he’ll start to doubt everything. Minerva and I, along with several other members of the staff have gone to great lengths to try and broaden Remus’s mind, as it is. He’s honestly as stubborn as you. If circumstances weren’t what they are, I honestly would have let him go after a month. He’s wholly unsuited for the work we do here.”

“Well, we don’t have another six months to sit around and wait for the man to come to his senses. The Death Eaters are gathering, and they have the book, the cup, and probably the locket as well. One more item and they’ll have enough to give Voldemort a body all his own, no more possessing people, no more wasting his energy keeping a meat suit functioning. He’ll be more powerful than ever.”

“What do you suggest we do, Sirius?” Albus asked. There was a note of exasperation in his voice, an emotion he almost never let slip. 

Sirius leaned back in the too soft chair and finished the last of the scotch. He really wished he could risk another but knew he shouldn’t. Not when he already felt a little lightheaded. Maybe it was that slight buzz that made him say what he said next. “I need more time with him.”

Dumbledore raised a curious eyebrow. “Are you looking for another interview or something else?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Sirius managed to keep from letting his irritation show. Sometimes the worst thing about Albus Dumbledore was his ability to see straight to the heart of things. 

Sirius looked across the desk at this man who he’d once seen as his mentor, his savior even. He could see straight through the kindly, doddering old hippie-grandfather aura Albus Dumbledore carefully cultivated. This was a man who had found a severely traumatized eighteen-year-old and sent him on a quest to bring down a demon. He’d used Sirius right from the start, even if it had been in ways Sirius thought he’d wanted. For better or worse, Sirius had learned a lot from this man across the desk.

“Something else. Something a little more…intimate.”


	7. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019! Have a chapter! This was mostly written during NaNoWriMo, but parts had to be rewritten and definitely edited. Hope you enjoy!

Remus had been sitting in his cubicle, staring forlornly at a blank Word document all morning. He had an article to write, but for the life of him he couldn’t even start it. Blinking, Remus’s eyes drifted from the monitor to the tape recorder sitting on the desk near his elbow. He could at least start with putting on a pair of headphones and listening to the recordings he’d made last night. 

That would be a start.

That would be _something_.

Remus dreaded reaching the end of that recording though. He dreaded listening to his own voice go tight with panic as he made horrible excuses to run out in the middle of his job. 

What would happen if Dumbledore found out he’d cocked this up? Would Sirius Black call Dumbledore and tell him what had happened? Really, Remus should go to Dumbledore and confess before Black could contact him. Also, he should probably call Black and apologize, maybe even beg for a chance to finish the interview. However, Remus didn’t want to answer the questions either Black or Dumbledore might ask about why he’d left. Guilt, embarrassment, and not a small amount of fear all conspired to keep Remus sitting at his desk, staring at his blank screen. 

He'd almost called in sick to avoid having to deal with anything today. In all honesty, he felt bad enough to warrant it after spending all night tossing and turning, nauseous with fear. The little snatches of sleep he’d managed to catch had been full of bad dreams and worse memories.

There should be enough on his tape recorder for Remus to piece together an article. He and Black had talked for over an hour before Rosier’s unexpected appearance had sent him fleeing. Between that and the pages of handwritten notes Remus had made, there really should be enough. The main problem was one of tone. 

Remus didn’t know what sort of story he wanted to tell about Sirius Black. 

Should he focus on the revelation the Black was no longer writing books about his experiences? That might count as a scoop, or it might already be something of a given since Black hadn’t published anything in almost three years. Besides, the comments Black had made about why he was no longer writing didn’t paint a very flattering picture of the man. He’d been snide about taking time out of his schedule for marketing and meeting fans. Of course, he’d said those things on the record and reiterated several times over that he didn’t care what other people thought of him. It was well within Remus’s rights to use Black’s words and show his contempt for most of the people who would consider themselves his colleagues or fans.

Strangely though, Remus didn’t want to write that sort of article. McGonagall might let him get away with it, since Black had put everything on the record, and it would come out sounding salacious enough for their readership. It just felt wrong though. It felt like he was writing a hit piece, and, unlike Lockheart, Black hadn’t done anything bad enough to deserve that sort of defamation. Somehow, Remus could see the man laughing it off, but it still felt disingenuous.

It was frustrating that Black had refused to answer questions about what he was working on now. Remus might have rolled his eyes at the theatricality of it. Besides, if Black was genuine about his decision not to write any more books, Remus really couldn’t see the harm in sharing if he wasn’t planning to write about the case himself. 

There wasn’t much Remus could do about what Black _wouldn’t_ talk about, so what did that leave him with? Black had been willing to recount past cases in detail, but he hadn’t really added to what he’d already published in his own books. There wasn’t much of an exclusive in rehashing stories that had already been written and published.

The one real scoop Remus might have had, he’d cocked up by running out before Black could actually answer his question about being haunted or chased by an evil spirit. That could have been quite the feature article; too bad he hadn’t stuck around to get it.

Groaning, Remus leaned forward until his forehead smacked against the keyboard. Well, there was bound to be something on the page now, even if it was nonsense.

“Mister Lupin?”

Remus jerked his head back up and spun in his chair to blink at the ethereal blonde teenager standing just outside his cubicle. Luna, he remembered. She’d introduced herself as Luna that morning when he’d walked in and found her at the receptionist’s desk where Penelope Clearwater usually sat. Penny, it seemed, had found another job and hadn’t felt the need to give two weeks’ notice. Remus couldn’t hold it against Penny, she’d gotten out, something he could only dream about.

“Yes?” Remus asked nervously. He didn’t know what to make of Luna yet, except that she unnerved him for some reason. Probably because after less than a day at _the Quibbler_ , Luna already seemed like she fit in seamlessly at the paper while Remus still felt like a complete outside half a year in.

Luna gave him a wispy smile. “Mister Dumbledore would like to see you in his office, if you’re not busy.”

Remus looked back at his computer monitor, which now had a string of random characters running across the top line of the page. He swallowed. The only reason he could imagine Dumbledore would want to see him was to talk about the interview last night. He winced but turned back to Luna and nodded.

She led him through the maze of cubicles without error or hesitation, which sparked Remus’s curiosity. How did she know where she was going so well after only a few hours of work?

That was a question for another time though, because Luna was already knocking on the office door in front of him. Dumbledore’s voice called for them to come in almost immediately. 

For the second time in as many days, Remus stepped into his boss’s office. This time he froze just inside, the door nearly clipping him from behind as Luna closed it. He’d expected to have a conversation about his interview with Sirius Black, but he hadn’t expected Black himself to be present for it.

There he was though, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s enormous desk. 

Remus blinked, making sure he was seeing exactly what he thought his eyes were showing him. Yes, that was Black, though he looked quite different from last night. Gone was the expensive suit and casual sophistication. Today, Black had his hair pulled back in a messy bun, and he’d traded his silk tie and silver cufflinks for jeans and a leather jacket. 

He was still maddeningly handsome though.

“Ah, Remus,” Dumbledore said in welcome. “Come in, come in!”

The old editor was smiling softly as he beckoned Remus toward the empty chair beside Black. He didn’t seem angry or upset at Remus, but then, Remus had never seen Dumbledore look angry or upset about anything. 

He avoided looking at Black as he sank into the overstuffed chair. Remus’s stomach already felt like it was in knots. 

“Thank you for joining us, Remus,” Dumbledore said. “Sirius here came in to apologize this morning for having to leave in the middle of your interview last night.”

Remus already had excuses and apologies on the tip of his tongue, and he fumbled when he realized he wasn’t in trouble. Not only that, but it sounded like Black had covered for him, had _lied_ for him even. Glancing over, Remus caught Black’s gray eyes and found the other man smiling conspiratorially at him.

“Er, it was no problem,” Remus said, forcing his head back around to Dumbledore. “I understand.”

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore said dismissively. “Things come up unexpectedly, thus is the nature of life. This time though, it seems to have worked in all of our favor. Sirius came in to talk to me this morning, and as we spoke, I believe we’ve come up with a marvelous idea.”

“Oh?” Remus replied, looking between Black and Dumbledore, who were both smiling, though very differently.

Dumbledore’s grin spread, but it was Black who answered this time. “I told you last night that I wasn’t writing books anymore, and Albus was complaining that it’s a pity there won’t be any record of what I’m working on now. So, he proposed an alternative solution.”

“Remus, I’d like you to accompany Sirius on his current investigations,” Dumbledore said, taking over the narrative. “You can write a few articles that we’ll serialize across several issues of _the Quibbler_ when Sirius’s investigation is complete.”

Whatever Remus had been expecting, this certainly wasn’t it. His reaction cycled quickly through flattered, flustered, and, finally, curious. Why had Black done all of this for him? Not only had he lied about what had happened last night, but he’d agreed to work with Remus for an entire series of articles. Even if this had been entirely Dumbledore’s idea, Black had agreed to it. And this was after he’d told Remus that he wasn’t going to talk about his ongoing investigations. All of it begged the question _why?  
_  
“I—I’m flattered,” Remus said. He couldn’t ask his “why.” Not now. Not when a practical voice in the back of his head hissed that his job might still be on the line. 

“Wonderful!” Dumbledore said brightly, a brilliant smile on his face. “I shall leave it to the two of you to work out the details, though I’ll have to ask that you do it elsewhere. I have a meeting with Minerva in—ah, that will certainly be her now!” 

The sharp knock at the office door definitely sounded like McGonagall. Obediently, Remus and Black both stood. Black shook Dumbledore’s hand and even though both men were smiling, Remus was certain there was a thread of tension between the two of them. 

“Remember the _other_ thing we spoke of, Sirius,” Dumbledore added. Remus felt like his suspicions were confirmed when Black’s smile turned into a sharp-edged, almost mocking grin for just a second. Then it softened back into something affable.

“Of course, Albus,” Black said. He let go of Dumbledore’s hand and turned his charming smile on Remus. “Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee, Remus? I’ll need to catch you up on a few things.”

Remus could only nod his reply. He definitely had a few questions for Black as well. There was something going on here. Remus could tell he was missing something, and that simply wouldn’t do. Not again. He’d learned his lesson with Regulus. Gift horses were sometimes Trojan horses, and looking them in the mouth was a much better policy than the old adage implied.

Black was still smiling as he put a hand on Remus’s shoulder and led them both to the door. Remus would have sworn he could feel the other man’s fingerprints burning straight through his shirt and into his skin. This was probably a bad idea for many reasons. 

Minerva startled at the sight of them when Black opened the office door. 

“Mr. Black,” she said, regaining her composure enough to make her disapproval clear.

“Darling Minnie!” Black replied. His hand left Remus’s shoulder, and Remus felt the loss of it with a mix of relief and something gut-twisting. He watched as Black raised McGonagall’s hand and kissed the back of it with a half-bow and a flourish, just like he was an English gentleman straight out of some earlier century. McGonagall endured the display with mild annoyance that spoke of long familiarity. 

Remus was beginning to wonder if _everyone_ at _the Quibbler_ had some secret past with Sirius Black. 

When she yanked her hand back from Black, McGonagall finally seemed to notice that Remus was there as well, and that he’d clearly been leaving with Black. Her eyes widened just a fraction and she turned to Dumbledore. “Albus—”

“Ah, yes, we’ll have to discuss the new series of articles Mr. Lupin will be writing on Mr. Black latest investigations and how we’ll work them into upcoming issues,” Dumbledore said, cutting across whatever McGonagall had been about to ask. Her lips thinned, and she cast another look between Remus and Sirius before sighing.

“Of course,” she said, and it sounded like resignation. 

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Black said. “A pleasure as always, Minerva.”

Remus followed him out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, almost wishing he could stay there and eavesdrop again, but Black was waiting for him. 

“So, do you know somewhere around here with good coffee?” Black asked, flashing that brilliant, enthralling smile in Remus’s direction. It still hadn’t lost its ability to make Remus’s heart flip-flop within his chest. “Unless the break room coffee here has improved from the caffeinated pigswill it’s been every other time I’ve visited.”

“I, um…yeah, there’s a shop about two blocks away,” Remus said. Really, he was glad to get out of the office. The questions he wanted to ask Black were better posed away from his habitually nosy coworkers. 

“Perfect!” Black said, gesturing for Remus to lead the way. 

Black winked at Luna on their way out, and Remus had a moment of confusion mingled with disgust. He thought he’d gotten some definite queer vibes from Black last night. Even if he’d been off-base, Luna looked like she was straight out of high school. Perhaps he’d judged this entire situation incorrectly…again.

Luna however, didn’t blush, and her smile was one of friendly familiarity.

Remus waited until they were out the front door and onto the sidewalk before he asked his first question. “So, do you know everyone here except me?”

Black laughed, that genuine, rough laugh of his that sounded like a bark. “Just about,” he answered. “I met Albus when I was just starting in the business, and we’ve kept in contact ever since. He sends me things he thinks I’d be interested in, and I do the same. When I’m in town, I usually stop by in person, and as a result I’ve met most of _the Quibbler’s_ employees over the years.”

“Including our brand-new receptionist?” Remus asked.

“Luna’s a different story entirely, albeit one that ultimately connects back here as well,” Black explained with a chuckle. “One of the first people Albus put me in touch with years ago was Luna’s father. He travels the globe searching out cryptids and magical creatures, and he always brought Luna with him, even when it probably wasn’t a good idea. After what happened to her mum, I don’t think Xeno wanted to let Luna out of his sight for anything.” When he saw the blank, puzzled look on Remus’s face, Black elaborated. “Luna’s last name is Lovegood, as in—”

“ _The Quibbler’s_ original owners,” Remus finished, catching on finally. No wonder the girl seemed like she fit in so easily. “So her mother…”

Black nodded with a grimace. Marlene had told Remus the story of what had happened to Xenophilius Lovegood’s wife, and how he’d sold his share of the paper to Dumbledore so he could run around the world chasing creatures so strange even most cryptozoologists didn’t believe in them. 

“I’m rather surprised her dad let her come back here,” Black said, “but I think it’ll be good for her to spend some time at the paper her parents built.”

From what he’d seen so far, Sirius was right. Luna fit right in at _the Quibbler_. On to the next topic then.

“About last night…” Remus started, but Black waved his apologies away before he could even speak them.

“You don’t have to explain, Remus,” Black said. 

Again with his first name. Remus really hated how much he enjoyed hearing Black say his name. He’d thought of it as smoke and whiskey last night in the bar when Black was drinking old fashioneds in a bespoke suit. This morning though, in the bright September sunlight with just a hint of autumn on the air, Sirius Black’s voice seemed to conjure the rumble of engines and the warmth of a London fog latte. So much for the coffee; Remus would be ordering tea today.

“Even if you don’t want an explanation, I do owe you an apology. It was unprofessional and downright rude of me to leave in the middle of an interview,” Remus said. “Also, thank you for not telling my boss about it.”

Black shrugged and gave him a smaller smile, one that Remus liked even more than his large, flirtatious grins. Black seemed like the sort who would flirt and grin at anyone. Perhaps it was Remus’s imagination or wishful thinking, but this small smile seemed far more genuine, more personal.

“You’re welcome,” Black said simply. “I did want to ask—and really, do feel free to tell me it’s none of my bloody business—but I couldn’t help but notice the reason you left. That man, was he an ex?”

Remus blanched and spoke before he could think. Really, he should have done as Black suggested and told him that, yes, it was none of his business. Instead, he blurted out. “Oh god no!” 

Just the thought of Evan Rosier ever touching him in any way made Remus sick to his stomach.

“Apologies,” Black said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

He sounded sincere in his regret, even a little disappointed.

Remus really shouldn’t elaborate on any aspect of the matter, but he found that he wanted to clarify one point. “You’re not wrong about, well…the hypothetical possibility, just the individual in question,” Remus said awkwardly. This had to be the most convoluted way he’d ever come out to someone. Not even telling Lily that very first time had felt this awkward. 

Black didn’t reply, just nodded. Yet, his spine seemed to straighten just a little. Remus wasn’t sure what to think about that. Despite his own attraction Black, he hadn’t really considered this a possibility. He hadn’t ever considered that this rich, handsome, professional ghost hunter or “paranormal adventurer” or whatever Black wanted to call himself, might ever be interested in him in return.

Thankfully, they arrived at the corner coffeeshop, and Remus could focus on ordering a drink instead of imagining the ridiculous impossibility of pursuing Sirius Black. Remus couldn’t resist ordering the London fog he’d envisioned earlier. To his surprise, Black contemplated the menu and ordered the overly sweet sounding latte on the specials board. For some reason, he’d struck Remus as a “black coffee so thick you could chew it” sort of person. Maybe it was the leather jacket.

As they waited in companionable silence for their drinks, Remus studied the leather jacket in question while Black checked emails on his phone. It was such a contrast to last night’s tailored suit, but somehow, they both seemed to fit Black perfectly. Once, Black’s jacket had probably been as high-end as his suit, but it had been lived in, probably for years. The leather looked soft and worn, especially around the elbows. When he looked closely, Remus could even see a few places where it had been torn and repaired with the utmost care and precision. Black obviously had the money to replace it, but he’d chosen to repair it instead. For some reason, Remus found that ridiculously endearing.

The silence lasted until they had their drinks and retreated to a small table tucked away in a corner of the shop. It wasn’t exactly private, but it was secluded enough to at least give the illusion that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. When they were both settled and had taken a few sips, Remus pounced, taking control of the conversation before Black could.

“Before we get into the details of what you’re working on and what sort of articles you’re looking for, I have a few questions,” Remus said. Black nodded his acquiescence and sipped his sugary, seasonally-spiced latte.

“Right then,” Remus said, drawing in a deep breath. “Why aren’t you just turning this into a book yourself. I know you said you don’t like the whole publishing process, but why go this route this instead, Mr. Black?”

“First of all, please, call me Sirius,” Black said. “We’re going to be working together often enough it’s going to sound silly if you keep calling me ‘Mr. Black.’”

“All right,” Remus answered. Black— _Sirius_ —did have a point there.

“As for your actual question…” Sirius sighed, setting down his drink as a flash of something sorrowful passed over his lovely features. “Can I tell you a secret, Remus?” He asked.

Remus shrugged. “I am a reporter,” he said, only half joking.

Sirius chuckled anyway, although it didn’t entirely chase away the sadness around his gray eyes. “Right, well, it doesn’t really matter either way, I suppose. Not anymore,” Sirius said. “So, here it is: I never actually wrote _any_ of those books with my name on their covers.”

This, Remus had not expected. His surprise must have shown, because Sirius shrugged sheepishly. 

“My best friend wrote them,” Sirius admitted. “It was his idea in the first place. Years ago, after we’d just finished a job in Germany, my friend said we should write everything down, share it in case other people had similar problems or encounters. I thought it was the Jägermeister talking at the time, but he was serious. He got up the next morning and started scribbling things down.

“Why publish under your name then?” Remus asked.

Sirius turned his face away from Remus then, glancing out the window. He squinted in the sunlight, which hit his face, casting it half in light and half in shadow. Something heavy seemed to have settled on his shoulders. 

“My friend—James—he had family,” Sirius said. “He didn’t want everyone and their dog bothering his parents or sending him weird Facebook messages. I, on the other hand, have no social media profiles, and James was the closest thing I had to family, so it was safer for everyone involved if my name was on the books.”

“What made you two stop writing?” Remus asked. He tried to phrase the question as gently as possible, because the pained look on Sirius’s face told him that whatever the reason was, it hadn’t been good. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked at all. Either way, Sirius answered.

“He died,” Sirius said sadly. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus said. The reporter in him wanted to ask follow up questions, to discover if and how this information fit into the stories he would be writing. Remus bit his tongue to hold back those questions though. From the sound of things, he would be working with Sirius for a while, and he didn’t want to push too hard right away and get things off on the wrong foot. If the topic became relevant he could always dig deeper later on.

“It’s all right,” Sirius said, though Remus didn’t entirely believe him. “It was three years ago, and I just…I couldn’t take up the task. I’d never wanted to be a writer in the first place, and with James gone…” 

Sirius shook his head, a few tendrils of black hair escaping his bun and falling down to frame his face. “So, no more books,” he said with a sighed that seemed like an effort to shove his pain back down somewhere manageable. “James was right though, it was important to share some of the things we did.”

“How so?” Remus asked. This was definitely the part Remus couldn’t understand, why Sirius—and his friend—had gone to the trouble to write all of their books if it wasn’t for the fame or the money. 

Sirius sipped his latte before answering. “You’ve only read _the Prisoners of Azkaban,_ right?”

“And a bit of _the Department of Mysteries_ ,” Remus added. He’d been too anxious last night to even read. 

“So, you read the bit with the _patronus_ ritual?” Sirius asked. 

Remus nodded. “That was the ritual you did in the prison basement to summon a sort of guardian spirit that fought off the evil spirits, right?” He was pretty sure he’d managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, although the wry twist to Sirius’s smile suggested at least a hint of it might have slipped through.

“Actually, _I_ fucked the whole thing up and nearly got my soul sucked out. James had to finish the ritual and save my arse,” Sirius said. “He didn’t want to put himself in the book though, so I got to look like the hero rather than an idiot who conjugated his Latin incorrectly. That’s beside the point though. As someone who knows how to write a compelling story, what did you think of that chapter, _honestly_.” He stressed that last word in a way that made it clear he wouldn’t accept any false praise or platitudes. 

Remus tapped his fingers against the side of his paper coffee cup as he recalled that chapter of Sirius’s book. “It was clunky,” he answered. “You interrupted the flow of the story in the middle of the climax to slow down the narrative so you could outline every detail of the ritual you performed. That chapter read more like a how-to than a memoir like the rest of the book.”

“Precisely!” Sirius said with more enthusiasm than Remus had expected. “James and I outlined the _patronus_ ritual in its entirety so it could be reproduced by any reader who needed it.”

“So, you’re saying if I followed the instructions in your book, I could summon some sort of spirit animal?” Remus knew his skepticism was slipping through freely now. It was practically curdling his words like milk.

Sirius shook his head. “No offense, Remus, but if _you_ tried the ritual I doubt anything would happen at all. Magic requires one thing more than anything else, and that’s belief.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You must realize how convenient that sounds, right? It automatically eliminates the ability for your claims to ever be independently verified because no neutral party could ever reproduce your results if only people who already believe in magic and ghosts can perform magic spells.”

Sirius shrugged. “Not my concern. Like I said last night, I’m not trying to convert anyone or prove anything. I have neither the time nor the temperament to play missionary. I just want to help those who need it. There are people out there who have used the information in my books to protect themselves, and that’s what’s important. The rest of the world can think I’m delusional or a con artist if they’d like.”

Remus wasn’t sure what to think about Sirius’s assertion that his books had saved lives with their instructions on how to exorcise demons and banish poltergeists. He could tell the man was sincere though.

“So why me then?” Remus asked. “Why did you agree to bring me along on whatever it is you’re working on now?”

“Why not?” Sirius asked in return. 

“Lots of reasons,” Remus said. It probably wasn’t in his professional interest to dissuade Sirius from working with him, but something about the choice struck him as wrong. 

Sirius just cocked and eyebrow and sipped his drink, challenging Remus to name those reasons. 

“I don’t believe in ghosts or demons or any of this,” Remus said. They’d already established that, but it seemed worth repeating.

“That hasn’t stopped you from working at _the Quibbler_ yet,” Sirius pointed out.

“Do you know _why_ I wound up working for _the Quibbler_ though?” Remus asked. Perhaps he just wanted to make sure Sirius knew what he was getting into. Better that than if he found out halfway through their series of articles and lost faith in Remus. 

Sirius nodded, and Remus felt that familiar twist in his guts. Shame and frustration and hurt all churning together. 

“I followed your own methodology,” Sirius said. “After last night, I Googled you.”

“So,” Remus said bitterly. “You can see why a lot of people wouldn’t want me to write about them.”

“I suppose,” Sirius said nonchalantly. “Unlike most people though, yourself included, I do believe in ghosts and shadowy conspiracies. Besides, you don’t strike me as the sort to make things up.”

Remus laughed bitterly. “There were several libel lawsuits that claimed otherwise.” _And you don’t know me at all_ , he almost added. 

“And you’ve read some of the things people say about me online,” Sirius replied. Remus recalled the question Sirius had never answered for him last night about the rumors that there was some sort of evil spirit haunting him. 

“Remus, if you don’t want to write the articles, I won’t be offended,” Sirius said plainly. “I’ll make sure Dumbledore and McGonagall won’t give you any grief over it, but if it makes any difference, I do want to work with you. From what I found reading your old articles for both the _Daily Prophet_ and _the Quibbler_ , you’re an excellent writer, and a good investigator. Besides, I think it’ll be good to have a skeptic with me, especially on this case.”

There was a familiar prickling in Remus’s mind now. He sensed something interesting in Sirius’s last statement. If Sirius really wasn’t interested in convincing the world the supernatural was real, then why would he want to drag Remus and all his doubts along with him on an investigation? 

“What makes this case so special?” Remus asked. Last night Sirius hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all, but now he was letting Remus and _the Quibbler_ publish an entire series of articles on his current investigations. What had changed?

Sirius smiled at Remus over the rim of his latte, smirking like he’d just won some sort of victory. There was a bitter edge to it though. “Last night you asked me about the rumors that there’s an evil spirit or ghost haunting me,” Sirius remarked. “You left before I could decide how much I wanted to.”

Remus grimaced at the reminder of how their interview had ended. 

“It’s more complicated than anything you found online might suggest,” Sirius said, “but those rumors aren’t exactly wrong either.”

For the first time, Sirius looked genuinely uncertain. No, not uncertain, Remus realized. He was _afraid._ Remus wrapped both hands around his cup to resist the sudden desire to lay a comforting hand on Sirius’s shoulder. He wasn’t here to console Sirius though.

“What do you mean by that?” Remus asked. His fingers were suddenly itching for the notebook in his bag. 

Sirius took a deep breath and the fear Remus had sensed before vanished, replaced by something fierce. The hard look in those grey eyes made Remus shiver and clutch his coffee cup tighter. Suddenly, Sirius Black looked dangerous. “For now, let’s just say this case is personal.”


	8. Interlude: Two Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to address this now, because otherwise I know there will be questions after this chapter. So, yeah, in this story the name “Regulus” is not Regulus’s real name, nor is “Sirius” Sirius’s birth name, and Black wasn’t the surname either of them were born with. The name Regulus is a pseudonym he used while working with Remus, and you’ll learn more about why Sirius changed his name as he and Remus get closer. You’ll learn Regulus’s real name in this chapter, but I don’t think I’ll ever outright reveal what Sirius’s birth name was, especially since, unlike his little brother, he’s not using it as a pseudonym. Sirius Black is his real name as far as he’s concerned.

**Two Years Ago**

Remus was going to be sick. He was going to vomit all over his desk, but he couldn’t for the life of him stop listening to the recording that was playing on his computer. Over the course of his career, Remus had seen some horrible things. He’d seen corpses in person, and had looked through grisly crime scene photos, but that all paled compared to listening to two people being tortured.

Another scream echoed through Remus’s headphones. They were growing more ragged, as if the Longbottoms had screamed themselves hoarse. Laughter followed the scream. It was the woman again. Remus didn’t know who she was, but of the four assailants, she was the one who frightened Remus the most.

This was it, Remus realized. This was the line. He stopped the recording and tore the headphones off before pushing away from his desk, needing even that little bit of physical space between himself at the flash drive that contained everything Regulus had promised. 

This was where Remus _had_ to stop though. The flash drive and its horrific contents would need to be turned over to the police. He’d tell Regulus that this was simply too much. Before, they’d been dealing with white collar crimes, despicable ones to be sure, but nothing like this. 

Remus got up from his chair, knees wobbling enough that he needed to grab the edge of the desk for support. He felt dazed as he walked across the bullpen toward the bathroom. The sounds of his coworkers typing and chatting droned in his ears like the buzzing of flies. Thankfully, they were all too busy to notice him.

The men’s room was empty, so there was no one to overhear as Remus knelt before a toilet and heaved up the remnants of his lunch. When he was finally through his throat burned with acid and his mouth tasted like hell itself, but his head felt a little clearer. Already, he was making lists of what he needed to do. At the top was talk to Regulus.

He cursed the deal they’d made. It left Remus with no way to reach out and make contact. He would just have to hope that Regulus sought him out quickly, because he didn’t want to sit on those recordings. Aside from Regulus, Remus was going to have to talk to Barny, the _Prophet’s_ Editor in Chief, and probably the paper’s lawyers as well, to determine exactly what he would need to turn over to the police and what he could keep writing. 

Still ruminating over his mental checklist, Remus splashed water on his face and drank directly from the bathroom tap to get rid of the lingering taste of vomit and bile. He emerged from the bathroom, only to collide with a whirlwind of peroxide blonde hair in a lime green dress.

Rita Skeeter, the _Daily Prophet’s_ gossip columnist and premier social pages writer, practically shoulder-checked Remus into the wall as she charged past, beelining toward Barny’s office. Andy Smudgley, one of the crime reporters, was standing at the water cooler nearby and just barely managed to get out of the way before Rita trampled him underfoot. 

“Fuck,” Remus muttered as he rubbed his shoulder where he’d hit the wall. He walked toward Andy and the water cooler, both of them glaring at Rita’s retreating back.

“Someone famous must be either dead or pregnant,” Andy said sourly. “Want to start a betting pool, Lupin?”

Celebrity melodrama was Rita’s forte, and for her to be in this much of a huff someone very famous must have just done something incredibly scandalous. 

“Probably another Kardashian baby or breakup,” Remus muttered, not really interested either way. 

“No, it’s not,” Betty Braithwaite said excitedly. She sidled up to the water cooler, a glint in her eye. Betty was another social writer, though not on the same level as Rita. She usually wound up with the stories Rita found too tame to write. “I overheard Rita on the phone. She was talking to a source at the morgue. The police pulled a body out of the Hudson this morning and you’ll never guess who it was!”

“A Kardashian?” Andy guessed without any enthusiasm. Remus let himself chuckle as he filled a paper cup with water. The vomit taste was still lingering on his tongue.

“No!” Betty said in hushed tones, as though the news wouldn’t be all over the bullpen in minutes anyway. “It’s Reginald Starr!”

“Who?” Andy asked. 

Remus barely heard him or Betty’s answer over the sudden ringing in his ears. 

Reginald Starr. Son of one of the oldest and richest families in the country. Heir to a fortune and a sprawling corporate spiderweb.

Regulus.

The water cup fell from Remus’s limp fingers, splashing Betty’s shoes.

“Oh god,” Remus whispered. 

He’d known from their second meeting exactly who Regulus really was. That stupid pseudonym was barely any cover at all. Reggie had insisted on it though, just as he’d insisted on so much. 

And now he was dead.

Remus barreled past Andy and Betty, ignoring their protests as he followed in Rita’s wake, sprinting toward Barny’s office.

The door to Barnabas Cuffe’s office was closed, but the walls and door were all glass, and Remus could see Rita inside, gesturing expansively and excitedly. Remus didn’t even bother to knock before bursting straight in.

“How did he die?” Remus demanded.

“Excuse me!” Rita snapped, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed behind her bejeweled glasses. 

“Remus,” Barny said a little more calmly, but still obviously annoyed. “Ms. Skeeter and I are in the middle of something here—”

“Reggie Starr, I know,” Remus interrupted. “How did he die?”

“This is _my_ story, Lupin,” Rita snarled. 

Remus ignored her and spoke directly to their boss. “The source I’ve been using for all my stories, is Reggie Starr.”

Barny’s small eyes went wide and round as silver dollars. “Regulus? _Reginald Starr_ is Regulus?”

Remus nodded frantically. 

Rita gasped, catching on. She might have ruled the social columns, but she was a good enough reporter to know what was going on in the other departments. 

“How did he die?” Remus asked again. 

“The police pulled his body out of the river this morning,” Rita answered. “They don’t have an actual cause of death yet. _However_ , my source at the morgue said he didn’t drown. She couldn’t tell me exactly what happened, only that it was _very_ clearly foul play.”

Remus was trembling. He was glad his stomach was already empty because otherwise he was sure he’d be throwing up again right now. Regulus was dead. His source was dead. Murdered.

And Remus could guess why.

“Regulus—Reggie—has been talking with me for months,” Remus said. “All the investigations into Lucius Malfoy and Cornelius Fudge, the tips, the evidence, that all came from him.”

Rita looked like all her birthdays and Christmases had just come at once. There was nothing she loved more than a juicy secret. Barny, on the other hand, had some semblance of a soul, and he looked horrified.

“And now he’s dead,” Barny said.

_“Murdered!”_ Rita corrected.

Barny pressed his palms against his desk and levered himself to his feet. “I can see where you’re both going with this, but we can’t get ahead of ourselves here,” he cautioned.

“Barny! Clearly you can’t think there’s no connection between Lupin’s stories and Reggie Starr’s grisly and unnatural death?” Rita protested. She was going to find some way to get in on this story, Remus could see it in her eyes. Fine, let the succubus fill the social pages with whatever salacious drivel she could slap together. Remus wanted more.

He wanted justice. 

Fuck, he wanted vengeance.

There was no way this was a coincidence. Reggie had been murdered just a few days after he’d sent Remus after the flash drive at his mother’s house. 

“I met with him last Thursday,” Remus said. “He gave me a flash drive, Barny.” Remus felt a flash of guilt for lying about the specifics of how he’d actually gotten his hands on the flash drive. Reggie had given him all the security codes to the mansion where the flash drive had been hidden along with the locket Reggie had told him to grab. The locket that was currently sitting at the side pocket of Remus’s messenger bag.

“There’s copies of emails between Lucius Malfoy and Mayor Fudge on there,” Remus explained. “Real evidence of embezzlement and violations of campaign finance laws.”

Barny frowned. “And you’re implying that one of them might have _murdered_ Reginald Starr over this information?” He sounded skeptical, and Remus had to admit that murder was a bit of a stretch for either Fudge or Malfoy. Well, maybe not so much for Malfoy, but still.

Remus glanced at Rita, not really wanting to say more with her there, but she looked rooted where she stood, and Remus imagined nothing less than physical force would get her out of Barny’s office right now. Fine then. 

“Maybe it wasn’t Fudge or Malfoy,” Remus admitted. “But their emails weren’t the only thing on the drive. There are audio files. They’re of the Longbottom case.”

Rita and Barny both stared at him and Remus swallowed, trying to push away the echo of screams in his head. 

“You have recordings of Frank and Alice Longbottom being tortured?” Barny said. His voice was barely a whisper.

Remus nodded. 

“That’s certainly worth killing over,” Rita said excitedly. “Who did it, Lupin?”

“I—I haven’t listened to the entire recording yet,” Remus admitted. Nausea roiled through his stomach again just thinking about it. “There were four people, and only one name has been said so far: Barty Crouch.”

“The district attorney!” Rita gasped. There was a hungry look in her eyes that was almost sexual. Remus was honestly terrified she might try and kiss him.

“I don’t think so,” Remus said. “His son shares the same name though—”

“And Barty Crouch Jr. went to the same prep school as Reggie Starr,” Rita said. Remus was reluctantly impressed that she’d known that. He’d spent hours tracking down a connection between Reggie and Barty Crouch Jr. 

“Crouch Jr. already has a reputation,” Rita continued. “He parties hard, and there have been a few accusations of assault and domestic violence against him. Drugs and drunk driving too, but no actual charges because of who his daddy is. Oh yes, he _definitely_ seems like the type.”

Unlike Rita, Barny looked dour and contemplative. “This is serious, Remus,” he said. Weight clung to every word. 

Remus nodded. Despite the adrenaline making him feel jumpy and light-headed, Remus understood exactly what was at stake here. He’d liked Regulus. He’d admired the man’s courage and his integrity. 

Some of the blame for Reggie’s murder was on Remus’s head. Someone had obviously traced the source behind Remus’s articles back to Reggie, and they’d killed him for it.

“We need to tread carefully here,” Barny said.

“We have to act quickly though,” Rita insisted. “This is exclusive of the _century_ , Barny! We can’t let it slip through our fingers!”

Barny frowned, clearly torn. In the end, he looked to Remus. “This is your story, Lupin. Your source. What’s your assessment of the situation?”

Remus tried to slow his thundering heart and still his racing thoughts. He’d never felt so much at once. 

This somehow felt like _the_ moment. _His moment._ Everything in his life felt like it was boiling down to this one moment. 

He wanted justice for Reggie, for Regulus. He wanted Malfoy and Fudge and Crouch Jr. and anyone else who might have played a part in Reggie’s death to get what they deserved. Remus also wanted things that weren’t nearly so altruistic. He wanted his name on the bi-line of this story. He wanted it to be his words that delivered justice. He wanted everything that would come with breaking a story of this magnitude. 

In the end, he couldn’t speak. He just nodded. Both Rita and Barny understood the simple gesture though. Rita let out a triumphant hiss, and even Barny seemed suddenly animated. 

“All right then,” Barny said. “Rita, see if you can get more out of your contact at the morgue. Lupin, start writing. We’ll publish straight to the site and you’ll get the front-page tomorrow morning. Now go!”

Remus and Rita both scattered. Sitting at his computer, Remus thought his heart might actually beat straight out of his chest. His fingers were trembling, but they flew across the keyboard as he began the story that was sure to make his career.


End file.
